


Gallifrey Records: Dischord

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [10]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:48:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times the Master and the Doctor play music together, and one time they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


_(ONE.)_

Theta Sigma showed up halfway through freshman year, on a Tuesday. Koschei remembers, because Tuesday is the only day the cafeteria serves chips.

A skinny streak of nothing with a head like a mop, all angles and limbs akimbo, he strolled into the lunchroom like he owned the place. He was so green he didn’t even have his uniform yet, in battered plimsolls and rumpled clothes instead. He’d surveyed the room, and Koschei had watched — hell, everybody watched, because a new boy at Prydonian Academy was something to take note of — and when his gaze swept Koschei’s direction, they’d made eye contact.

Just like that, gravity kicked in.

The skinny new boy sat down in front of Koschei, plucked a few chips off his plate and said, “Hey, I’m Theta. Not gonna finish these, are you?”

Both of them at the Academy on scholarship, neither of them fits in with the toffs, but they fit perfectly with each other. By junior year, Koschei doesn’t even bother trying to keep any of his own chips on Tuesdays anymore, he just automatically shovels them onto Theta’s plate and nicks Theta’s fish fingers in exchange, neither of them batting an eye.

But this Tuesday, there won’t be chips or fish fingers or arguing over who’s going to finish the custard, because they aren’t going to be in the cafeteria. It’s Koschei’s idea, although Theta actually does it — pulls the fire alarm just before lunch hour, because it means they have a while before they’re reported truant to Headmaster Rassilon. Getting off-property is a bit dodgy, though.

The wailing alarm flushes everyone out into the main courtyard, where they have to wait until the fire brigade has cleared the building. Everyone’s still milling around when Theta and Koschei slip behind the building, hop the fence, and take off.

“No way we’re coming back before dinner,” Theta says, turning around to walk backward in front of Koschei on the sidewalk. He’s waving his hands as he talks, bouncing on his toes, every line of his body quivering with excitement. “How far do you suppose we could get? Train station’s not far, I figure we might make it to Liverpool before they even call the coppers and report us missing!”

Koschei’s hands are crammed in his pockets, his shoulders hunched at little. He squints at his friend. “Focus, Theete.”

“Right, right, ‘course, I’m just saying, it’d be easier than you think, slipping away. Making a clean escape. Scarpering off. Doing a bunk. Did you know the Yanks call it ‘going on the lam’? I’m very well-versed in American slang. We could hop a plane, be in New York before tomorrow. They’d think we were natives! ”

Theta’s gob is like a perpetual motion machine; if Koschei doesn’t step in, it’s going to keep going forever. “We’d have to find another shop that sells the Tyler I want, and I don’t feel like putting in the leg work. So let’s just stick to London today, shall we?”

Theta spins around and falls into step beside Koschei, shoving his hands into his pockets and unconsciously mimicking his posture. “The James Tyler factory is in California. We could hop a plane to LA instead.”

“You’ve got your money?” he asks, fist balling around the carefully rolled stack of bank notes inside his pocket.

“Everything’s under control, Kosch” he replies with a smirk, mischievous glint in his eye.

They’re in Headmaster Rassilon’s office at least once a week, and the faculty has pinned Koschei as the mastermind of the outfit, which is true to an extent — any of their escapades that involve intricate planning and the arrangement of everything like cogs in a clock usually can be chalked up to his plotting. Theta is trouble of a different kind. He might not plan in advance like Koschei does, he might not think as far ahead, but given an inch of freedom and a whim, Theta’ll drag them both straight into a mess any day, leaving them to muddle through.

The shop’s called The Guitar Cellar, and they’ve never actually been inside. They don’t get much time off-campus, and when they do manage to slip away — late at night, after the dorms are quiet and everyone’s asleep — the shop’s closed. They walk the dark, empty streets, making their way here, at least once every other week for the last few months. They stand on the pavement and stare into the window at the guitars on display, arranged on hooks and glinting in the security lights.

It’s a black alder Tyler, with creamy mother-of-pearl accents, and Koschei can feel it in his hands even though he’s never actually touched it. Theta keeps telling him he ought to save up for a drum set, percussion is more his speed, and maybe he’s right, but Koschei hasn’t stopped thinking about that Tyler since he first clapped eyes on it.

A bell over the door dings when they walk in, and the shop owner squints at them. Two kids at midday, in school uniforms, obviously already breaking rules, and he’s none too pleased to see them.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Koschei says, putting on his most winning smile. And it is the one that wins everyone over — hypnotic, Theta calls it, as though that’s supposed to mean something. “I’m the president of the Music Appreciation Society at Prydonian Academy, and Headmaster Rassilon has sent us over here because we’re in the process of acquiring instruments for our collection. This collection will be quite extensive, but we’re out to check out a few shops today, to purchase a few for the music professor to take a look at. Whichever he likes, he’s going to be back around in a week to pick up at least half a dozen more.”

“Just buying one today,” Theta interjects from behind him. Koschei uses every ounce of his will to keep from rolling his eyes, keeps the smile natural and easy on his face.

“That’s right, just one.” This was most definitely not the plan. But then again, Theta never seems to stick with the plan. Koschei swears he’s gonna need blood pressure medication before they graduate.

Koschei spends the next thirty minutes charming the shopkeeper — easy, really. He’s good with people, winning them over and getting them to do what he wants. It’s how he’s manipulated a dozen toffs at the Academy to buy into his poker nights, games played at two in the morning in the boiler room. Counting cards, winning just enough — not so much he attracts attention and ire, just enough to keep a steady profit coming in, until he had the funds for the guitar.

He’s nearly a hundred pounds short for the Tyler he wants, but he’s not worried.

Theta’s walking up and down the aisles of the store, and after a bit he creeps up behind Koschei. “I’ll just pop outside and wait till you’re done.”

Koschei waves him away, still engrossed in conversation with the shop owner.

Fifteen minutes later, Koschei walks out of the store with his black alder Tyler in a brand new case, with a dozen extra picks and a small amp thrown in for free, in exchange for a promise to speak well of The Guitar Cellar to the music professor.

Theta is waiting around the corner at the end of the block, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and a blue Les Paul hanging off his back.

Koschei comes to a stop, gaping at him. “You nicked that.” It’s an accusation and an expression of admiration, all at the same time.

Theta snatches the cigarette from his lips and turns around with a flourish, and Koschei gets a good look at it — it’s an antique, hard-used, three strings missing. The dials look busted.

“Sexy, isn’t it?” Theta says, grinning at him over his shoulder.

“Left me to the heavy lifting, as usual,” Koschei retorts, holding up the amp. “Can’t play that thing properly without one of these, can you? You’d be lost without me.”

Theta turns back around, taking a drag off the cigarette before handing it to him. Koschei pulls in a long huff, his cheeks hollowing out, and the tip of the cigarette flares bright red.

Theta grins at him, all teeth and round cheeks. “‘Course I’d be lost without you, Kosch.”

They pull supper kitchen duty for skipping class, and after all the dishes are washed, they retreat to their room and stay up into the small hours of the night, working out the chords to “All Along the Watchtower.”

 

_(TWO.)_

They’ve only had the guitars for a few weeks when Theta’s cornered by the actual music professor.

“I hear you boys play a little guitar,” the professor says and Theta hesitantly nods before thinking better of it. “Well, the band’s dropped out for next week’s dance and my classes will be out at a competition. Can you two fill in?”

Theta’s nod this time is enthusiastic and by the time he finds Koschei, he feels like shouting to the ceiling: they have a _gig._ They have a **_gig._**

Koschei’s more practical about it – this could be the start of their music careers. Never mind that what they’re doing can barely even be called “music,” this is the start.

“We’ll need to call ourselves something,” Koschei says. “And we’ll need stage names. We have to show we’re serious about this.”

They lob names back and forth all the way up until the day before the dance – Chips on Tuesday, Rassilon’s Pants, Sonic Lasers. There are rumors flying all over school about who’s _actually_ playing because the fliers have changed so many times.

Their latest attempt, using their initials – KTS – is almost immediately shot down by Romana. “Katie’s? Katie’s what? Who’s Katie?”

It’s late at night, but Koschei leaves the dorm with a growl, tearing down every single KTS flier so that they’ve all disappeared before classes the next morning. It’s a Friday, the day of the dance, and they’re still nameless.

There’s barely any room in Theta’s (not insignificant, if he’s honest) brain for lessons and he spends most of them doodling band names on his notebooks. He skivs off the last class to do a little bit more surgery on Sexy – the guitar is almost perfect, he just has one or two things left, really. He’s not just tinkering, it’s all absolutely necessary, despite what Koschei implies.

Theta’s been back in the dorm for a little while and he’s in the middle of tightening up the strings, when Koschei comes through their door, all tense, rushed movements, his shoulders squared.

“Names _now,_ Theta.” There’s an edge to his voice that’s relatively new, one that seemed to coincide with the realization that this really could be the start of something. Or the realization that Koschei seems to desperately want it to be.

Theta moves his guitar aside, giving it a small stroke down the neck as he lays it on his bed.

“Band names,” Theta says, rolling the words around. “Band. Names. Band _names._ _Band_ names.”

Koschei is still standing, muscles in his jaw working, and this is how he gets when they have an important exam or Romana’s really getting to him or the administration is threatening his scholarship.

“Enough!” he shouts, and Theta looks up, startled. “If you’re not going to take band names seriously, at least think up a decent stage name!”

Koschei seems to realize he’s gone too far and he softens, shuffling over to where Theta is sitting on the bed and reaching out a hand to pluck at the guitar lying next to him.

“How’s surgery going? Will the patient live to see tonight’s show?”

Theta tilts his head, trying to decide if another outburst is brewing, but Koschei seems to have calmed himself down.

“Oh, of course,” Theta says. “Doctor like me? The prognosis is good.”

And there it is.

Theta feels it in his gut, feels it in the hair at the back of his neck, Doctor. He’s fixed up his guitar and he’s going to make music with it, the kind of music that fixes up people.

“Call me that,” he says, soft enough that Koschei leans in closer.

“Call you what?”

“Doctor.”

Koschei pulls back again and Theta feels like he’s looking right through him, like he’s seeing something in him that Theta himself doesn’t even know is there.

“Okay,” Koschei finally says. “But Doctor what? Doctor Theta?”

He shakes his head. “Just Doctor, the Doctor.”

Koschei nods. “Got it, _Doctor_.”

They’re silent for a moment, and Theta – no, the Doctor, picks his guitar back up, strumming absentmindedly at the strings a few times before speaking, “How about you? What would you like to hear audiences chanting, when we take the world by storm?”

Koschei blinks, his face impassive for a moment. “Master. I want them to call me Master.”

The Doctor laughs, but shrugs. “Got it, _Master._ ”

If the teeth-baring grin he gets in response seems unsettling, the Doctor blames it on nerves.

They spread the word around at dinner, that it’s the Doctor and the Master that will be taking the stage tonight, and by the time they’re back in the dorms and changed out of their uniforms, it’s time to leave for the gig.

The Doctor – and that’s it, he’s already thinking of himself as the Doctor, liking how it wraps around him and fits him in a way Theta Sigma never quite did – can barely stand still. They have a band, he’s in a band, with his best mate, and an audience is waiting. It feels significant, like a coming of age, like he’s staring into his future and trying to decide whether to jump, like the universe wants to see what he’ll do.

It also, it has to be said, feels hot.

They’re in the auditorium, tucked up behind the thick velvet curtains they set up for school plays, and it wouldn’t be so bad if the Doctor could just get some personal space, but the Master’s crowding him. He keeps checking the Doctor’s fingers on the strings, like these past few weeks haven’t handily identified which of the two of them is more naturally gifted.

They’re just playing a bunch of covers, with a backing track cobbled together late one night as they poured over their meager album collection. They don’t know a lot of songs yet, but the 12 they picked, they know by heart – plucking out notes and practicing chord changes together late into the night.

They’d nicked a beer earlier, smuggling it out of the teachers’ quarters with winning smiles and easy strides, and they’d been passing it back and forth for the last 15 minutes, ignoring how it had gotten warm and flat. It’s the beer the Doctor smells now, on the Master’s breath and mixing with the firework scent the Doctor always associates with him. It’s a combination that makes him feel happier than he has in a long time, which is saying something.

It’s actually been a pretty great few weeks, these ones since they got their guitars. Minus the tension of the band name situation, they’d barely had a row between them. As the Master’s fingers grip the Doctor’s, repositioning them for the hundredth time – _incorrectly_ repositioning them – there’s a row spoiling though.

The Doctor turns his head to tell him to shove off, that they’ve practiced and practiced and nothing they could do in these last few minutes is going to matter at all, but the words tangle in his throat. The Master’s face is right in front of his and they’ve been this close plenty of times, working on school projects, analyzing liner notes, but it’s never felt like this.

It’s never felt so intense or so focused, it’s never felt like he something he wanted to push at.

It’s never felt like something he wanted to chase.

In a flood of hormones and foolish bravery, he leans forward and touches his mouth to the Master’s.

There’s a moment where the Master doesn’t respond and the Doctor’s frozen, mind breaking free to analyze the taste on his lips, the beer and cigarettes, the roasted potatoes from dinner, and then he feels the pressure returned as the Master kisses him back.

There’d been rumors for as long as they’d been friends, the way they were inseparable, always opting to room together or pairing off for assignments, but this – this is something entirely new.

The Doctor’s snogging roster isn’t very long, limited to a few frantic kisses under the bleachers with girls that barely even speak to him anymore, and he knows that any comparisons his brain is flipping through don’t mean very much. But still, as he parts his lips and slips his tongue into the Master’s mouth, it’s a real number one with a bullet situation.

The Master’s hands are suddenly curling into his hips, aggression and heat and the guitar’s still between them, which is just as well because the control he has over his body is limited on a good day and right now, with the adrenaline of the show looming and the way this suddenly feels like it was inevitable, any meaningful friction is going to get him hard.

He’s half there now anyway and as the Master bites down on his lower lip one moment and roughly runs his tongue across the spot the next, the circuit completes and he’s straining against his jeans.

He moves his hand to the back of the Master’s head, fingers pulling, tugging, yanking at his hair and it’s so different, the planes and angles of his best friend, the guitar forcing back into him as the Master claws at his shirt trying to pull them closer to each other.

There’s a wall just behind them and he wants to back them up into it, wants to press or be pressed against it, but a voice crackles to life over the speakers and they’re being introduced to their classmates.

They separate in a flash, pupils blown wide and chests heaving with the effort it’s taking to breath.

The Doctor wants to say something, wants to talk about what just happened and, maybe, whether they can do it again, but the Master’s shoving him past the curtain and onto the stage.

He’s squinting into the lights a moment later and he sees the Master reach out a hand to cover the microphone before leaning in to speak in the Doctor’s ear.

“That’s a pre-show ritual now, right?”

Something spreads in the Doctor’s chest, like dropping ink into water, and he nods, trying for a smooth grin, but knowing he’s landed somewhere around goofy smile instead.

The Master dashes away for a second, starting the backing track, and when he returns, he’s grabbed his guitar.

The gig isn’t perfect, there’s more than a few mistakes spread between the two of them, but when it’s over, the audience is clapping anyway and the Doctor chances a glance at the Master. He’s absorbed in the cheering, shoulders back, taking it all in, and he looks – he looks different. More confident, older, _different._

The Doctor feels different himself, like he faced down a vortex – he played music, on a stage, in front of people, and it was _brilliant._

It’s a feeling he’s going to run toward forever.


	2. Chapter 2

  
  
  
  
_(Three.)_  
  
It’s the first song he learns on his own.  
  
The Doctor goes away for the winter holidays, no family to speak of, but he falsifies the forms and spends the week on a walkabout around London.  
  
When he comes back, the Master is sitting cross-legged on the Doctor’s bed, the Master’s own bed a tangle of sheets, the mattress pushed up against the wall of the tiny dorm room. His guitar is in his lap and he’s plucking out random notes. The Doctor clears his throat and then the Master is looking up, locking their eyes and smiling like he’s got a secret.  
  
His fingers realign on the strings and he bites at his lip, concentrating. A few more notes and he hits his stride, the song he’s playing evident now – “Sympathy for the Devil.”  
  
The Doctor tosses his luggage into a corner and falls to his knees in front of it, unsnapping his guitar case as the Master moves on to the second verse.  
  
His guitar freed, the Doctor flops onto the bed, singing along as he waits to jump in. The Master slides seamlessly into the bridge and The Doctor picks it up.  
  
It can’t sound as amazing as it does from the inside, just two blokes, acoustic and arrogant and more than a little aggressive; the Master keeps pushing it further, adding flourishes and solos and baring his teeth with the effort.  
Romana, who isn’t even supposed to be in their dorms, appears in the doorway, looking disinterested, but she stays anyway, nodding along after a few moments.  
  
When the song ends, the Master’s enigmatic look is still hanging around and the Doctor’s just about to press it when Romana pushes off the doorframe and walks over to the Master, giving him a solid smack on the back of the head.  
  
“Oi! What the fuck was that for?” The Master’s been a little different lately, trying out a harder edge, and the Doctor’s not entirely complaining, because there’s something about it, something when the Master turns that energy toward him, intense and forward, that he’s enjoying.   
  
“Any girl in the school and you went for one that lives on my floor? You absolute wanker.” Romana’s tone is tough, but the edges of her mouth are curling up, and there’s a twinkle in her eye, like she’s enjoying this.  
  
Whatever this is, the Doctor is already definitely  _not_  enjoying it.  
  
The Master shrugs. “Well, if you’d stop playing so hard to get, I wouldn’t need anyone else.” He smiles up at her sweetly.  
  
That bit, that’s familiar, they both flirt shamelessly with Romana, and depending on her mood, she gives it right back, or tells them to piss off. The fact that the two people he talks to most in the world are constantly running hot and cold isn’t lost on the Doctor, but this – this sounds like something more.  
  
The Doctor pushes away his guitar and scoots further back on the bed, putting space between himself and the Master as Romana collapses into a desk chair.  
  
“Yeah? Now she won’t shut up about you,” Romana’s voice climbs into a falsetto, “‘Oh, he’s so talented, do you think he likes me?’ You better sort this girl and quick. Or – oh, are you keeping her on the line? Thought that’s what this one was for.”   
  
She gestures with her thumb at the Doctor and he pushes his body back again, shoulders pressed to the wall and mouth opening before he can stop it.  
  
“What exactly did you do on your winter hols?” The Doctor can hear the way his voice is strained and he tries to tamp it down.  
  
“More like  _who_  he did.” And Romana leans up to smack at the Master’s head again. “Stupid prat.”  
  
The Master ducks out of the way of Romana’s hand, catching the Doctor’s eye and his face is something like a challenge.   
  
They’ve never really talked about what it is they do in the dark of their dorm or in empty classrooms or, once, in the back of a school assembly, but it’s definitely  _something,_  they’re definitely doing  _something._  
  
“Romana, don’t you have somewhere to be? Your own dorm, perhaps?” The Master says as he stands from the bed, walking behind Romana’s chair and wheeling her back to the doorway.   
  
She pushes up from the chair, rolling her eyes as she exits the room. “Oh, all right. Don’t hurt each other, lads.”   
  
The Master closes the door with a click before turning around to stare at the Doctor. It’s unnerving, the way he’s squinting at him, and the Doctor is angry all of the sudden.  
  
“Shagged someone over break then, did you?” His voice isn’t strained this time, it’s hard and level and deceptively calm. He’s pretty pleased with himself, if he’s honest, because it’s taking everything in him not to tug at his hair and shout and knock the Master right across the jaw.   
  
The Master raises an eyebrow and sighs, like he can’t believe they’re going to talk about this. “Just the girl across the hall from Romana. Ran into her in the library and, well, you know how that goes.”  
  
The Doctor does, in fact, know how that goes, because he’s run into the Master in the library more than a few times. Pressing the Master back into the shelves, scrambling with belt buckles and tongues and muffled noises.  
  
Right now he’s never going to set foot in the fucking library again.  
  
“Oh, yeah, ‘course,” the Doctor sneers, like this isn’t some huge deal, like if you don’t count fumbling around with each other, they’re both definitely virgins and now the Master is shagging people in the library and shrugging about it like it’s the bloody weather.   
  
“What, you’re angry?” The Master says and his tone is incredulous.   
  
“No,” the Doctor says, and his fingers curl into the sheets beneath him.  
  
“Good.” And the Master’s on his hands and knees, crawling across the bed toward the Doctor.  
  
“Piss off.” The Doctor shoves at the Master’s shoulder, but he doesn’t move back and something in the Doctor fires. He’s grabbing at the Master’s head and pulling it down to his own in a rush of limbs and anger, teeth gritting as they bang against the Master’s.   
  
The Master growls, tongue snaking out as he reaches down to pin the Doctor’s hand to the mattress and drops his hips into the Doctor’s.   
  
It’s the work of a few solid thrusts, tongues and teeth working against each other, and they’re both hard. The Doctor forces his arm up from the mattress to shove again at the Master’s shoulder and this time the Master bends with it. He lets the Doctor rise up and over him, reversing their positions so the Master is on his back, head at the foot of the bed, the Doctor half on his side above him.   
  
The Doctor grabs for the Master’s hand, forcing it between them and setting it where he wants it before tightening his fingers. The Master bats the Doctor away and moves his hand back, stroking the Doctor through the thin material of his trousers until he’s gritting his teeth against the Master’s neck and bucking up into his hand.   
  
When the pressure against him lets up for a moment, the Doctor groans with the loss, but then the Master’s working his fingers under the waistband of his trousers, undoing the button and the zip and shoving them down to the Doctor’s knees.   
  
The fly of his boxers is tented up and the Master fits his hand into the gap, curling a fist around the Doctor and pumping a few times, shallow and rough. The angles aren’t quite right, there’s not quite enough room to move between the fabric of his pants and the limited space between their hips, but when the Master tightens his grip, the Doctor’s jaw unlocks and he’s tugging at the collar of the Master’s jumper, pulling it away before biting at the skin there.  
  
The Master yelps, but doesn’t slow his rhythm and it’s when he pulls back and locks their eyes that the Doctor breaks, making a mess of his pants and the Master’s jumper. The Master slackens his grip before he finally pulls away and arches pointedly into the Doctor.   
  
“Nope,” the Doctor says, pulling away to straighten his pants before reaching down for his trousers and refastening them around his hips.   
  
The Master looks shocked, but presses the heel of his palm against the front of his jeans, adjusting himself before standing.   
  
“Fuck you,” he tells the Doctor, but the bite isn’t behind it. In fact, he looks apologetic.   
  
“We’re not rock stars yet, Kosch,” the Doctor tells him. “No need to be a wanker, all right?”  
  
The Master laughs and gestures at the front of his jeans. “I can think of a pretty big reason to be a wanker.”  
  
The Doctor grabs a pillow and clubs him across the back. “Average-sized reason, at best,” he says, his tone teasing.   
  
“Hardly,” the Master says, snatching the pillow from his own bed and launching a counter-attack.   
  
Ten minutes and a brief bit of wrestling later and the Doctor’s given in and lent a spit-slicked hand.   
  
The Master pads across the room and rifles through their records, pulling out the Violent Femmes and setting the needle.   
  
The opening strains of “I Held Her in My Arms” fill the tiny dorm and by the time the lyrics have picked up the Master’s crossing the room, exaggeratedly singing.   
  
“I was with a girl, but it felt like I was with a boy,” he hums along for a bit before picking it back up, “I held her in my arms, but she wasn’t you-ooo-oo.”  
  
The Doctor rolls his eyes. “Oh, that’s not heavy handed at all.”  
  
The Master flops onto the bed next to him, “As I recall, you didn’t have a problem with my heavy hand a little bit ago.”  
  
The Doctor scratches at his head, “Is that true? Doesn’t ring a bell, must not have been very good. You’ll have to remind me.”  
  
And he does.  
  
It takes the Doctor until supper to forget again.  
  
  
 _(Four.)_  
  
The Doctor hasn’t seen the Master for six days. It isn’t unusual anymore, really, that length of time. Used to be they were inseparable, but now it’s like the magnet’s flipped, the polarity’s reversed. They push at each other where they ought to pull, and everything’s on its head, and the Doctor feels like he’s going mental.  
  
The little dressing room in the back of the theater smells like grease paint and urine, for some ungodly reason. It’s a bit small, this venue — smaller than they’ve been playing for the last year. But it’s a charity show, the second one they’ve signed on for. The Doctor’s doing, the result of badgering the Master for weeks until he finally gave in,  _just so you’ll shut your gob._  Of course, the Master then proceeded to shut it for the Doctor, biting and sucking and hands direct and demanding. The Doctor pushed right back and they’d ended up in a stall in the men’s loo, and the Doctor didn’t mind a rough tumble now and then, he quite enjoyed it, but it seemed like that was  _all_  they did anymore.  
  
The Doctor feels like a nostalgic sap ( _the words sound in his head like the Master’s voice, derisive and scornful_ ), but he can’t help it — lately he’s been missing Koschei. Missing the nights when they held each other, tangled on a twin-sized mattress, and it wasn’t a competition or punishment or an exorcism, it was just them. Missing the taste of Koschei’s skin and sweat that isn’t tinged with blood and anger.  
  
Of course, the Master hasn’t been Koschei for years, now. Not really since the Academy. Not since their first album stayed at number one for six months straight.  
  
Sucking in a deep breath, foot jiggling on the concrete floor, the Doctor fights off the urge for a cigarette. The smell of smoke would at least cover up the stench of this tiny room, but he’s been trying to quit lately. Something about a nagging need to let go of a bad habit.  
  
There’s a warm-up act on, some local band, and they aren’t half bad. The Doctor doesn’t need to look at the clock to know it’s only five more minutes before they’re off-stage and the Doctor and the Master are supposed to be on.  
  
It’s always been the two of them — the Doctor likes it that way,  _needs_  it that way. Even if the Master has taken to playing the drums more often than the guitar these days, he’s still like a supernova in the middle of the stage, exuding frantic energy and pulling the attention of every last member of the audience, even the ones in the cheap seats. Driving everything forward.  
  
If he doesn’t show, what will the performance be without him? What will  _the Doctor_  be without him?  
  
There’s a knock at the door. “Two minutes!”  
  
“Bloody hell.” The Doctor gets to his feet and grabs Sexy, hefting her by the neck and flinging open the dressing room door. The hallway outside is relatively empty, and the Doctor is in a mood to yell at someone, to scream about everything and nothing, but no one’s there to listen.  
  
And if he was holding  _any_  guitar but this blue Gibson, he’d slam it into the wall and keep swinging until there was nothing left but a battered pulp of plastic and wood and metal. But this is  _the_  guitar, so instead of smashing her to bits he clutches her so hard the frets and strings bite into his fingers, and he stalks through the backstage to the wings.  
  
The stagehands are nearly done switching out the drumset, everything’s set up and ready to go.  
  
The Doctor’s pacing, he’s got to delay, he can ask the drummer from the local band, maybe, to fill in. He shoves his fingers into his hair and pulls so hard his roots ache and stars dance behind his closed eyelids. The smell of dusty velvet curtains and well-worn floorboards is strong, the hubbub of the crew loud, and the Doctor lets it soak through his anger and panic, grasping for something comforting and familiar enough to keep him from dropping off the deep end.  
  
The Doctor is, after all, a professional – no matter how erratic the Master’s behavior, no matter how he’s increasingly obsessed with controlling not only the creative direction of their music and careers, but also the money and the influence that comes along with that. The Doctor’s gets his heart rate down to a reasonable level, and he can hear the crowd growing restless, so he slings Sexy across his body and braces himself to step out onto the stage alone, when there’s a shout behind him.  
  
“Going on without me, you selfish tosser?!”  
  
It’s so loud, there’s no doubt the front of house heard it, at least the first few rows.  
  
The Doctor doesn’t turn, keeps walking, but a hand grabs him and spins him around. There’s no grace, no apology, nothing except the rough push of the Master’s mouth and tongue against his own — the pre-gig kiss, they’ve always done it, even when they were fighting and nearly to blows. The Master tastes like vodka and cigarettes and smells like a woman’s perfume.  
  
The Doctor plants his hand squarely in the Master’s chest and shoves.  
The Master falls backward, directly into the blonde behind him —  _her_  perfume, the Doctor realizes. He recognizes her, Ailla, a minder sent by the record label to make sure they’re actually working on the second record, the one that should’ve been finished months ago.  
  
She frowns and pushes the Master back up, steadies him. The Master grins at him, manic and wild-eyed, and the Doctor isn’t quite sure if he’s wasted, or verging on mental, or maybe both. “Been missing me, darling?”  
  
“What’s he into now?” the Doctor asks Ailla.  
  
Before she can answer, the Master rolls his eyes and waves his hands. “Pfft. A bit of this, a bit of that, something with a needle and I don’t even remember, that was ages ago, wasn’t it, m’dear?”  
  
“In the limo on the way here,” Ailla says.  
  
“Let’s finish this, I’ve got places to be.” He brushes past the Doctor, shoulder hitting his arm on the way, and the Doctor staggers back at the force of it.  
  
While they’re both onstage, the gig is an unmitigated disaster. The Master ignores the set list they’d agreed on, picks songs at random. Performs a few covers they haven’t paid royalties to use and therefore can’t be put onto the official recording of the event that’s supposed to go on sale and benefit the charity.  
  
Halfway through the performance, just after “The Slopes of Perdition,” the Master hefts his drumsticks into the air. Face red, eyes dark with disdain and disgust, the Master stares down the Doctor as he screams to the Glasgow audience, “Thank you, London!”  
  
He tosses his drumsticks so they skitter across the floorboards and come to rest near the Doctor’s feet, and then he walks offstage.  
  
The Doctor stands frozen in bewildered fury for a long second. He feels the weight of hundreds of eyes on him, their palpable shock, mixed with pity and scorn. His fingers are moving on his guitar, pure muscle memory, and he opens his mouth, and words come out.  
  
“I don’t know about you lot, but I’m not done for the night! What say we give it a few more – I’ll bet you an encore that I can play ‘Darkheart Colony’ better without a backbeat, anyway!”  
  
At first it’s one loud whistle from the back of the house, but it’s soon echoed by a dozen more, and applause builds like thunder until they’re stomping on the floor of the theater, and it sounds like the pulse of a thousand of drums keeping time for him.  
  
The Doctor finishes the performance, gives them two encores and more than enough material for the charity album.  
  
He doesn’t ever go back to the apartment he shares with the Master again, not even to collect his things.   
  
  
 _(Five.)_  
  
The stencil’s already on, the needle just starting to buzz in the Doctor’s ear, when the Master slams into the shop.  
  
His eyes fix on the Doctor, on the writing, temporarily in blue and plastered across the Doctor’s chest, right over his heart.  
  
“ _Alone I keep the wolves at bay?_ ” the Master reads out, sneering. “Only you could turn a tattoo in emotional drivel. What does that even mean?”  
The Doctor pushes up out of the chair, the leather sticking to the skin of his back for a moment as he waves the tattoo artist off.  
  
He’s not sure what, exactly, it means – just that it’s something he feels in his bones. Dealing with all of this, the Master and his fits, picking a new label, it feels like the Doctor against the world sometimes. And the thought of a wolf tickles at the back of his brain, the image so strong that he wants to run from it and to it in the same breath.  
  
He ignores the Master’s question, advancing on him before countering with one of his own, “Why are you here?”  
  
The Master reaches out a hand, running a sweat-soaked finger across the Doctor’s chest and smearing the stencil.  
  
“I’m here to get a tattoo. To fix a tattoo. And not some syrupy Clash lyric either. Surprised you didn’t pick The Beatles – Let It Be? Strawberry Fields Forever? – right up your alley, you fucking soppy git.”  
  
The Doctor kicks down the part of him that  _had_  considered Beatles lyrics and shoves at the Master, causing him to stumble into the window of the shop.  
  
“Oh, come now, that’s not very give peace a chance of you.” The Master’s voice is full of condescension and the Doctor curls his fingers into a fist.  
  
“Yeah? I’m not feeling very peaceful lately,” the Doctor says. “Did you sign the papers?”  
  
The Master pushes off the window, chest to chest with the Doctor, the fabric of his t-shirt brushing against the Doctor’s skin.  
  
They’ve been here before, angry and heated and lately it’s gone one of two ways. They’re probably not going to fuck in the middle of this tattoo parlor, so it’s down to another noisy row.  
  
“No, I didn’t sign the papers,” the Master says, still right in the Doctor’s face. “And I won’t. I’m starting my own label. Why should _Gallifrey_  reap the benefits of  _my_  talent?”  
  
The tattoo artist, who’d been watching from the corner, finally steps between them, pushing the Doctor’s shirt at him.  
  
“One of you needs to sit in that chair right now and let me do my job, or you both can piss off,” he says.  
  
The Doctor takes his t-shirt, slipping it over his head and scrubbing at his hair.  
  
“He can sit, I’ll leave,” The Doctor says and his lips curl around the sentence. “You know what? I’ll even pay for it, since he’s so concerned about money.” He reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out a handful of notes, dropping them on the ground at the Master’s feet.  
  
The Master kicks at the notes, scattering them further before strutting over to the chair and sitting down, hiking up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal the small Chinese symbol there.  
  
The Doctor can’t even remember what it’s supposed to mean now, they were both so pissed, staggering around London and into a tattoo parlor late in their final year at Prydonian, but he thinks it’s something about harmony or peace or love.  
  
How fitting that he’ll be covering it up then.  
  
He takes one last look at the Master as he leaves, his hand slamming against the wall next to the door and rattling the open sign.  
  
Four months later, his first solo album debuts on Gallifrey at the same time the Master drops his, on the newly-formed Vortex Vinyl.  
  
The executives at Gallifrey are scrambling, a fresh-faced new hire called Russell seems to have especially taken a shine to the Doctor and it’s Russell that calls the Doctor in after weeks of virtually no radio play for the Doctor’s first single.  
  
“He’s paying them,” Russell says, shaking his head. “All the big stations, here and in the States. He’s got them on the payroll.”  
  
It explains almost everything, those few sentences. Why the Master’s music, percussive and loud, seems to be everywhere on the dial, even the stations that don’t fit the format.  
  
Russell continues, “You know we can’t do that. It’s unethical. You’re just going to have to beat him on your own. Make something so good the public is screaming for it. The stations will have no choice but to listen.”  
  
The Doctor blows out a breath, cheeks puffing out as he tugs at his ear.  
“I can do it,” he tells Russell, even though he’s not sure that he can, knows how the Master is now – ruthless and driven, a pulse of ego drumming steadily under his every move.  
  
He writes his first song for the new album on the cab ride home, a melancholy thing about love and loss and the people you become.  
  
It’s used, inexplicably, in a commercial for biscuits, but the royalty check is huge, a staggering number the Doctor can barely wrap his brain around. He signs the check over to the Master, sending it overnight delivery, the words “For More Airplay” written on the memo line.  
  
The check is cashed three days later.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

  


There’s a bit of a kerfuffle over the penthouse at the Ritz. There are other swank hotels in Cleveland, to be sure, but the Ritz is the crème-de-la-crème. The Doctor couldn’t care less about the whole thing — even Rose seems indifferent — but Donna has turned into Don Quixote on a quest, determined to secure the nicest room at the nicest hotel.

“This is _your_ year, Doctor! I have never, in all my years as your manager, had a hotel turn me down flat! You’re at the top of the list of inductees, and not just because it’s in alphabetical order!” She reaches across the table for the bread basket, snatching a roll and ripping it in half. She crams a bite into her mouth and chews viciously.

“Won’t do you any good, no matter how much you call and cajole. He’s paid the hotel managers off,” the Doctor replies with an air of nonchalance — at least, what he hopes is an air of nonchalance. “It’s what the Master does, when he sees a problem: manipulates and bribes his way through. Just save yourself the trouble, Donna, and find us all another hotel.” His voice might be pitched a touch high, but it isn’t noticeable, it’s fine, everything’s fine.

Rose’s hand finds his knee under the table and squeezes with gentle reassurance.

_Dammit._

He takes her hand and squeezes right back. “There’s bound to be another penthouse at another hotel.”

Donna sighs and uses the rest of her roll to point at him emphatically. “All right. But this is your year, Doctor, no matter who else the nomination committee chose — all the trade papers say so!”

As it turns out, the Doctor is wrong. There isn’t another hotel, because the Master has booked every penthouse in the entire city of Cleveland.

And while Donna frets over the lodging and logistical details of the weekend, what she isn’t talking about is the real issue at hand. The elephant in the room, the one none of them wants to discuss because the Doctor keeps giving it such wide berth: the performance. The fact that he’s supposed to share a stage with the Master at the induction ceremony, one that’ll be broadcast on television.

Donna’s been keeping the papers away from him, or at least trying to, but he’s still seen the headlines screaming _REUNION!_

Even though he hasn’t told Rose exactly what’s on his mind — even though she doesn’t know the full extent of his history with the Master — she’s noticed he’s on edge ( _she’s perceptive, his Rose_ ), and is doing her best to distract him.

When he and Rose walk into the lush executive suite at the Ritz in Cleveland, the Doctor still isn’t bothered by the fact that this isn’t the penthouse.

He _is,_ however, bothered by exactly how bothered he is about seeing the Master face-to-face within a matter of hours.

The Doctor tips the bellhop and closes the door of the suite. When he turns, he finds Rose reclining in the middle of the king-sized bed, shaking her head so her golden hair spills across the plush white duvet. Her arms stretch above her head and she arches her back, hips and torso wiggling hypnotically. “Ohhhh, this isn’t bad!”

He’s learned nothing from music if not how to hit his cues and this is it – his cue to join Rose on the bed, his cue to bury himself and whatever’s troubling him somewhere in the vicinity of her thighs.

But something about it feels wrong, the weight of the Master is heavy, right in the front of his mind, and clearly not keen to go anywhere anytime soon. The idea that, on some level, he’d be thinking about the Master while he’s with Rose like that – it’s more than he can stomach right now.

“See? What do we need the penthouse for anyway?” he says with a laugh, but he’s keeping his distance, ostensibly checking the luggage and hoping Rose doesn’t notice.

She flops around a few more times, burying her head back into the pillow with a contented groan before pushing up off the bed to join him near the door.

“That’s –” she breaks off as his eyes widen, because he’s just spotted it, too.  
“That’s not my guitar,” he says, and the floor drops out.

The case is too sleek, not nearly battered and loved enough, and he knows what he’s going to find when he opens it – a black adler Tyler.

Rose watches him, holding her breath as he drops to his knees and unsnaps the case, hoping, hoping, hoping.

It’s a black adler Tyler.

He lifts the lid and just the smell of it, rolling out through the air with the movement, takes him back to 16. He runs a finger across a string and up the neck to find the knob that used to be broken, loosening at the most inopportune moments.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Rose says and he nearly flinches. He’d almost forgotten she was there, so caught up in the memory, the gently faded ache of who he used to be, and who he used to know.

“Yeah,” he says, blinking away the haze. “I, uh, I know whose guitar this is.”

He scratches at the back of his head before refastening the case and standing.

Rose reaches out, running a hand down his arm. “Do you want to return her yourself?”

And the way she says it, it’s like she knows, not the specifics, of course, but like she’s circling around them, getting nearer and nearer until he’s just going to have to tell her. Sit down and hash out the whole messy thing.

“I have a feeling her owner will be down here soon enough.” He takes a deep breath after the words, trying to decide if this is better or worse than any other way they could’ve run into each other.

“Do you – do you want me to leave?” Rose says, and the careful consideration of her tone, the way she’s keeping it neutral and even, feels like a hand wrapping around his throat.

What is he doing? Why hadn’t he told her all of this months ago? Why isn’t he telling her now? He’s a different man, and it feels like he’s been several different men since.

“Doctor?” Rose’s voice is slightly more hesitant this time. “Should I go?”

“There are things you should know about the Master” — he sucks in a deep breath, tugging nervously at his left earlobe — “wellll, I say things, I mean bits of history that aren’t the pap the Master calls an autobiography, because a monkey with a typewriter would’ve been a better ghost-writer than he hired, let’s be honest — okay, maybe a blindfolded monkey —”

“Doctor,” Rose interrupts, gently but confidently collecting his hands, which he’s been waving around. She presses them to her lips and tucks them against her chest. Her heart beats slowly, steadily under his right palm. Holding his gaze with her own, brown eyes full of calm certainty, she says, “S’okay. You don’t have to tell me anything. I trust you.”

“Oh.” The fluttery panic that had begun to well in his stomach is overcome with a tide of heat. Their footing has been steady ever since the night of the award show, ever since she’d told him she loved him again, but hearing these words nearly undoes him. His knees feel warm and weak, and he isn’t thinking about the Master or the guitar in the slick case lying open at his feet, isn’t thinking about how he’s going to muddle through the next twenty-four hours.  
He’s just thinking about this remarkable woman in front of him, and how utterly he adores her.

“I want to tell you. I need you to know, actually,” he says, and as the words leave his mouth, he realizes exactly how deeply he means them. “I should have told you before.”

“Well, we’re here now,” she says, the corners of her mouth lifting just a fraction.

“When we met, the Master was different — well, we were both different people. I’m not just talking about youthful folly, although there was plenty of that to go around, believe you me. We nicked our fair share of cigarettes from the corner shop, for starters. Nicked more than that, even —”

The knock on the door is like rapid-fire gunshots. The Doctor blinks, and Rose squeezes his hands. “Later. We’ll do this later. As for now … I can stay.” She tilts her head a little and draws her eyebrows together, her next words more of a question. “Or I can go?”

He clears his throat. “I should probably — by myself, yeah?”

She nods. “I’m sure Donna needs some help with something. I’ll just pop by to check.”

He reaches out before she can move toward the door and folds her into his arms. She tucks her head under his chin and hugs him tight. They don’t say anything, and when he finally lets go, she takes his hand and they walk to the door together.

The Doctor lets go of her to open the door.

He’s seen pictures of the Master over the years since they last met in person, of course; seen television interviews. The Doctor doesn’t know what he expected, coming face-to-face with him again after so long.

But it wasn’t this.

Clean-cut and clear-eyed, just the barest hint of stubble dotting his jaw and it’s obvious it’s only from the time of day, not because he’d been on any sort of bender or because someone had removed all the sharp objects from his flat for his own safety.

No, this is a man who looks – he looks like a politician.

“Doctor,” he says, all proper, clipped accent and wide, white smile. “It’s been a long time. I think you have something that belongs to me.”

And the way his gaze slowly shifts from the Doctor’s face to Rose’s makes the Doctor straighten his back, toes curling inside his trainers.

“Right, right, of course, Rose, can you – I need you to get the thing from the place with the stuff. Can you get it now?” He’s got his hand on Rose’s back, ushering her out the door because it suddenly seems imperative that Rose not be in this room right now.

The Master smiles. “Ah, Rose Tyler, the Doctor’s latest companion, pleasure to meet you,” he sticks out his hand for her to shake, and the Doctor wants nothing more than to bat it away, for those hands to never meet. “I’m the Master and I think you’ll find my wife, Lucy, down in the _place_ with the _stuff._ Perhaps she can assist in locating the _thing_?”

The ire raised by the amused condescension on the Master’s face jockeys with the surprise over mention of a wife and he’s trying to pick what to focus on and trying to get Rose out of the room, when Rose reminds him why she’s in the room, why she’s always in the room with him, if he has anything to say about it.

She primly grips the Master’s hand before giving it a proper shake. “Ah, yes, Lucy, I remember. Clever little flight attendant with a hidden camera, yeah? I’ll make sure to find her.”

And Rose is out the door and into the hall, a lingering glance at the Doctor that makes him feel better and worse all in one go.

The Master steps in to the room after her, kicking roughly at something with his feet almost as an afterthought. It’s Sexy, the Doctor knows that case anywhere, and it’s suddenly seeming like less of a horrible coincidence that he’s got the Master’s guitar.

He bends down to pick up the guitar from the floor, walking to settle it at the edge of the bed, when he hears the Master close the door.

“Blondes, eh?” The Master says as the Doctor turns back around to face him. “Wherever could you have picked up a thing for blondes?”

And the Master deliberately raises a hand to his hair – it’s lighter than it’s ever been before, short and neat – and combs through it with his fingers.

“Still, shouldn’t judge, my wife is a blonde, too. I’d introduce you, but as your Miss Tyler just pointed out, it seems you’ve already met.” The sly, syrupy tone the Master’s using is coiling in the Doctor’s stomach, warm and sick.

“Have we? I can’t recall,” the Doctor says, slipping in to what he hopes is an unaffected babble. “Anyway, here’s your guitar, you really ought to name her, you know. Or have you finally gone and done it? Something near to your heart, perhaps? Money? Ego?”

The Master laughs, “Oh, this thing? I barely play it anymore, I much prefer the drums. But I just couldn’t resist getting her out for a show with the Doctor.”

“Sounds a bit sentimental of you. You going soft?” the Doctor replies.

“That was always your department, sentimentality.” The Master comes to stand beside the Doctor at the foot of the bed, surveying the rumpled duvet with lifted eyebrows, his attention finally settling on the new blue Les Paul inside the battered case. It’s a gorgeous thing, rich blue and hardly used. Rose had the Gibson people craft it specially and gave it to the Doctor a month ago.

The Master purses his lips. “Of course playing together won’t be quite the same for you, will it? You always have been careless, Doctor, losing the things that mean the most to you. You dropped your precious guitar somewhere over the Pacific, my people tell me.”

With Rose out of the room, and well out of harm’s way for the moment, the Doctor finds it easier to let the comment roll off his back. He shrugs and lifts his left hand in the air, flexing it. “Oop, plane crash, butterfingers.” He pauses. “You know, this clean-cut car salesman look doesn’t work for you. Does anyone actually buy this act?”

“Act?” the Master says, hands coming up to his own chest in mock offense. “Legions of adoring fans, nonstop airplay in every corner of the globe, the world marching to the sound of my drums — they love me, Doctor. They love me thirty million pounds more in album sales than they love you, if we’re putting a fine point on it.” He makes a show of turning around, looking at the closed door, as though making sure they’re still alone. “A word of friendly advice: be careful of the strays you pick up. Your latest acquisition, coming from where she does and with the creative bent she brings to the table” — the way he rakes his eyes from the Doctor’s head to his feet makes the Doctor feel like he needs a shower — “it’s no wonder your sales have dipped.”

It’s one thing for the Master to insult the Doctor — the Doctor’s used to it, expects it. The Doctor doesn’t think of himself as a violent man, but the minute the Master insults Rose, red creeps into the edges of his vision and his hands curl into fists. Every muscle in his body quivers with the desire to shove the other man across the room, to do anything necessary to wipe the smug grin off his face and make him bleed.

Which is exactly the opposite of what Rose would want him to do.

So the Doctor unclenches his fists and smirks right back at him.

“Have they?” the Doctor asks, scratching the back of his head and furrowing his brow in mock confusion. “I hadn’t noticed. Been too busy with charity gigs — you know how it is, all that personal fulfillment you get using your gifts to help people, sometimes you don’t pay such close attention to the bottom line. Or actually, I suppose you don’t know. You haven’t paid attention to anything else in a long time.”

He reaches down, snaps his own guitar case closed, and walks to the door of the suite. He plucks the Master’s guitar from the floor and holds it out to him.

“This has been quite a thrilling reunion, but I’ve got things to do before the banquet this evening. I’m sure you do, too. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

The Master takes his guitar back, turning it to rest with the end on the floor so he can lean on it, simultaneously forced and casual, “Oh, now, is that any way to treat your oldest friend? Rushing me out the door? I don’t think so. In fact, I’m certain your companion has found mine by now, let’s go greet them, shall we?”

The thought of Rose alone with any ally of the Master’s is enough to get the Doctor to agree and he’s opening the door before he can think better of it.

“Terrific,” the Master says. “I’ll just need to stop off in my room, it’s the penthouse – surprised you couldn’t find one for yourself, big rock star like you? – anyway, I’ll just drop my guitar and then we’ll go find them.”

The Master picks up his guitar case and gestures widely with it, indicating the Doctor should go ahead through the door first and then he follows along.

The hallway from the room to the elevator seems to go on forever, like something from The Shining, and when they finally reach the elevator, the Doctor feels hot and achey, nerves firing at random.

The Master jabs at the button for the elevator, four times in rapid succession, a beat the Doctor recognizes as the backbone of almost every song the Master’s ever recorded on his own.

When it arrives, with a cheerful ding, they both step inside and the ride to the penthouse is interminable, filled with a muzak version of one of their early hits. The Master doesn’t fail to notice.

“I believe I just made a quid,” he says. “Shame you didn’t fight harder for those rights, it’s always a joy to see your name next to mine on the checks though.”

The Doctor crosses his arms, leaning casually against the wall of the elevator. “And which name is that? What is it you’re going by now? Harry? Harriet? Wasn’t that the dinner lady’s name?”

The Master scoffs, “Harold, ta. And how would you know what the dinner lady was called? I seem to remember you preferring to put other things in your mouth during dinner hours.”

A comment about the size of that particular thing is on the tip of the Doctor’s tongue when the elevator stops, doors opening at the top floor, and he bites back the remark.

“Ah, yes, here we are, the penthouse,” the Master says, walking out to open the door to the suite. He slides the key card in and out and pushes on the handle, revealing a suite that would’ve impressed Theta Sigma, but to the Doctor just looks opulent and unnecessary.

There’s bits of tech and wires strewn throughout the room and they look incongruous with the decor.

“What’s this? Finally found a machine to make your music for you? Probably have more heart that way.” The Doctor picks up a small piece of plastic resting on a table near the door and examines it. It looks like a case for something.

“Oh, yes, heart, how _important_ ,” the Master sneers. “No, these are the prototypes for my latest creation – a brand of music player that will topple the iPod in a matter of weeks. I call it the Toclafane.”

A second passes before it hits him, memories the Doctor hasn’t examined in years dredging to the surface.

“Toclafane? Wasn’t that the name of the rubbish comic you wrote and illustrated when we were freshers at the Academy, something about boogeymen in the dark?”

The Master had gone through a drawing phase before he settled on music, had spent the second half of freshman year doodling on everything from wooden desks to walls, even forayed into a bit of mural-painting — on the back of the dorm building, with spraypaint — which got him hauled in front of Headmaster Rassilon and threatened with having his scholarship taken away.

Staring at the tailored man in front of him, the Doctor doesn’t see even a flicker of Koschei left, not a hint of the boy who wrote and drew that comic, as terrible as it was.

“Doesn’t quite roll of the tongue, does it? _Toc_ -la-fane. Toc-la- _fane_. Toc-laaaaa-fane.” The Doctor shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, shaking his head. “Going to have a hell of a time marketing that.”

“A new industry standard deserves a new kind of name,” the Master retorts. He spreads his hands in a gesture that’s oddly appealing and open. It’s new, this gesture, something he could see the Master doing in front of business colleagues and politicians. “iPod? Really? Very Kubrick and _2001_ , and very _done._ I’m going to usher in a new age of digital media, turn the tech world on its head!”

The Doctor covers his mouth with the back of his hand as he yawns. “That’s quite the speech you’ve got there. Whip that out at parties, do you?”

“I knew you wouldn’t have the kind of imagination it takes to appreciate this kind of innovation,” he says, his face shifting into an expression of pitying disgust, like he’s looking at a crippled animal that needs to be put down.

“Oh, a couple years’ worth of electrical engineering study and I can tell you, this thing you’ve got looks like you hired a complete cock-up to design it.” He sighs tiredly. “Are you done dropping off your guitar yet? As fascinating as this has all been, at this rate the induction’ll be over before we get downstairs.”

The Master places his guitar on the floor, plucks the empty Toclafane case from the Doctor’s hands and puts it back where it came from. “Suppose you’re right, I image Rose is lost without you. She seems more than a bit clingy, this one. Pictures of you both snogging each other all over the papers every week, her always holding your hand, she’s a little pink leech. Surprised that hasn’t sent you on a mad dash for the hills yet. Cut and run. That is your pattern, isn’t it?”

He breezes out the door before the Doctor can retort, and the Doctor only manages to catch up to him a second before the elevator door closes and they descend toward the lobby, the jazz version of “Slopes of Perdition” drifting out of the tinny speakers and filling the silence between them.

“You’re just going to _love_ Lucy,” the Master says as the doors open into the hotel lobby. “She’s exceptional at taking direction.”

The Doctor steps out ahead of him, already scanning for Rose. “Ah, yes, of course, rule number of living with the Master: follow blindly.”

He spots Rose near the bell desk, she’s talking to a blonde woman whose back is turned, but the Doctor already knows it’s Lucy, because of course it’s Lucy.

“Oh, how charming, they’re playing together,” the Master says and speeds up just as Rose spots them, raising her eyebrows and giving a tight-lipped smile.

The Master reaches them first, wrapping an arm around Lucy’s waist and pulling her in for a kiss. His fingers skate down her back, settling on her bum as he deepens the kiss. It’s an unnerving level of public affection to begin with, but the way the Master’s eyes are open, and focused on the Doctor, ratchets it up, and the Doctor nearly grimaces.

Rose finds her way to his side, knitting their fingers together and squeezing as the Master separates from Lucy with a wet noise.

“I assume no introductions are necessary,” the Master says. “Shall we get a drink?”

The Doctor’s hand tightens reflexively around Rose’s and she smooths her thumb across the back of it, smiling up at him and then at the Master.

“Let’s do that,” Rose says, courteous and razor-sharp, and for a moment the Doctor wishes she weren’t so stubborn, wishes she didn’t care so much about him, because then maybe this would be easier. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to worry about her getting hurt in the middle of all this.

“Brilliant,” the Master says, locking eyes with Rose, who stares right back and there she is, the foolish, brave love of his life. “I know just the place.”

He leads them across the lobby to a small bar and the Doctor can’t help but comment, “So creative of you, the hotel bar. However did you come up with that?”

The Master approaches the hostess with a wide smile and she nods, walking toward a small table, gesturing them all to follow.

“Actually, Doctor, they serve afternoon tea here, thought it might be nice to catch up, you know, relive the old Academy days?” The Master’s practically licking at his teeth as they take their seats and the Doctor resolves not to let it bother him.

Outwardly, anyway.

The minute the Master smells blood, it’s all over. If he can just play it casual, like Rose already knows everything, there’s just the tiniest bit of hope that they can get out of this unscathed. And then he’ll tell Rose everything, on his own terms.

“Oh, Rose doesn’t want to hear any more about those days, you know me, just couldn’t stop gushing about you,” the Doctor says. “I’m certain it would be more interesting to hear what you’ve been up to. I heard that cover of ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ you guested on and I have to say, it sounded a little sloppy.”

“Oh, you should’ve met the sound engineer on that one, he was off his head from day one. No idea how to control his habit, it was a mess,” Lucy says, leaning onto the Master’s shoulder, her hand slipping into his lap. They’re on the side of the table that’s a bench seat, and they’re practically on top of each other. “Harry was brilliant, of course. But he didn’t have the authority to toss anyone out on their arse, so things didn’t go as smoothly as they usually do. That’s what my Harry does — make everything run like clockwork. It’s a gift he has.”

The Doctor rests his arm around Rose’s shoulders and she tucks herself into his side, her hand resting on his thigh. The Doctor says, “I’ll bet that got under your skin, not being in control. Is that why it’s the only collaboration you’ve done since our last album?”

“Working with idiots, it is a pet peeve of mine,” the Master retorts, tipping his head to rest on the back of the booth. His grin is filthy, his eyes locked to the Doctor’s, and the movement of Lucy’s arm is small but unmistakable, one that settles into a regular rhythm. “Thought I’d learned my lesson, but apparently I’m a glutton for punishment. Aren’t I, darling?”

Lucy laughs, a high, chittering sound. “Ohhh, you should see the kinds of toys my Harry likes!” Her gaze shifts to Rose. “Although I’m sure you know a little something about that, being with the Doctor.”

Rose leans forward toward Lucy, obviously aware of what’s happening across from them and fearless nonetheless, her grip tightening just above the Doctor’s knee. His stomach’s roiling and he’s infinitely grateful the waiter hasn’t come by their table yet, because the idea of food is only making it worse.  
Rose replies, “I don’t know what kind of tabloids you’ve read, Lucy, but you can’t believe everything they print. Really, I don’t know where they come up with the sorts of things in those stories — did you see the one where they wrote that he’d rented a herd of ponies for my birthday? Ridiculous! It was a hot-air balloon, over the Tanzanian veldt.”

“And the balloon wasn’t even horse-shaped,” the Doctor blurts out, because the Master’s gaze is direct and unflinching, and his pupils are most certainly dilated, and the Doctor knows this look. It’s been years — so many he couldn’t even number them — but he’s intimately familiar with the expression on the other man’s face. “Just a regular hot-air balloon, nothing remarkable about it at all, actually!” He shifts his attention to Lucy instead, but that’s hardly any better, her tongue pinched between her teeth, her grin wide.

“Can I get you anything?”

The Doctor nearly flinches, and Rose turns her head to look up at the waiter, a skinny man in a tuxedo.

“We’ll take a couple of old fashioned’s, and make them doubles,” the Master says, shifting in his seat. Lucy’s arm keeps moving, and it’s such a small, subtle gesture that the Doctor hopes the waiter doesn’t notice at all.

“A martini, and that’s it for me,” Rose says, smiling at the poor man. “Unless you have chips? Er, I mean french fries?”

“Sure, sure,” the waiter replies, turning and walking away before the Doctor can order the whiskey he’s craving.

“Oh, how terribly rude of me, we forgot to let the Doctor order,” the Master says. “Well, nothing to be done for it now, we’ll just have to share.” The Master’s eyes shift slow and deliberate to the neck of Rose’s shirt.

“Yeah, we can share,” Lucy says, chipper and agreeable and the Doctor’s mind flips back to a film studies class at the Academy, “The Manchurian Candidate” projected onto the wall of the lecture hall and the Doctor’s hand doing exactly what Lucy’s is right now.

Whatever this is – irony, tragedy, a cruel joke – the Doctor is nearly choking on it.

The waiter returns with their drinks almost immediately and the Doctor doesn’t think twice about reaching for Rose’s martini, draining it in three quick gulps.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing at his mouth with his palm, but Rose just winks at him.

The waiter reaches over to set down the other cocktails and the Doctor’s eyes rivet to the subtle movements of Lucy’s arm. Donna’s voice is in the back of his head, _Why you didn’t you just leave, you big dumbo?_ and he tries to imagine the story the press would spin on this one.

Swingers, that’s his best guess. What’s a bit of partner swapping between old mates?

Rose orders another martini before the waiter leaves again and he’s so preoccupied with the way the Master’s arm has lifted from around Lucy, fingers in his cocktail and fishing out an ice cube, that he almost forgets to ask for a drink again.

“Scotch, anything from the top shelf,” he says, finally pulling his eyes away as the Master gets a grip on an ice cube. He knows where that ice is going to go, can nearly picture the gap between Lucy’s trousers and shirt and he coughs out, “Neat,” to the waiter at the last second.

One less glass of ice on the table, then.

The waiter disappears at the same time the Master’s hand does and the arch Lucy gives away from the seat back is almost predictable.

“Top shelf, really, Doctor? Can you afford that? I must insist you let me pay. Wouldn’t want you to be stranded in Cleveland of all places,” the Master says, his voice hitching at the very end and the Doctor knows what that means, knows exactly what spot Lucy’s thumb has found.

Rose’s chips come out with a busser before the Doctor can reply and it’s a testament to the caliber of the hotel that someone had the presence of mind to send a bottle of vinegar with them. Either Rose and her fondness for chips and vinegar have been recognized or some sweeping generalizations are being made about the British.

Rose thanks the busser, uncapping the vinegar, and trying to shake some out over her chips, but the bottle’s plugged. She’s shaking, shaking, shaking and the Doctor’s breath catches as he watches Lucy focus on the movement and then sync the rhythm of her hand to Rose’s.

The Master bares his teeth, back arching. “Rose, harder, I think, you’ve almost got it.” And he lets out a long, slow breath.

The Doctor’s hand shoots out to cover Rose’s, stilling her and it’s just as his fingers wrap around hers, long enough to edge over to the bottle, too, that the Master groans, jaw slackening as he slumps into the booth.

The plug on the vinegar gives way, dousing Rose’s chips and the Doctor is almost offended at the absurdity of the moment.

Lucy’s hand reappears long enough to grab at a napkin and there’s the unmissable sound of a zipper as the Master sits up straighter and grabs for his drink.

“Better than old times,” he says, draining half the old fashioned in one gulp.  
The Doctor’s head is chaos for a long moment, memories of Rose doing practically the same thing to him at the award ceremony a few weeks ago, memories of the Master jumbled in, and he’s starting to feel more than a little claustrophobic.

“These are inedible,” Rose says, wrinkling her nose at the chips. She leans back against the Doctor again with a sigh, her hand tightening on his thigh, and she knows what just happened, she has to, but she’s pretending like it didn’t happen ( _god what else is there to do, the Doctor’s_ certainly _not going to acknowledge it aloud, because that will just make this all go downhill faster_ ), and there’s panic in the chaos now. This situation is so far out of the Doctor’s control, and the Master’s eyes are still locked onto him and his mouth is curved into the most glutted grin, and the Doctor has to do something.

He opens his mouth, a long round of babble ready on the tip of his tongue, but Rose beats him to it. “Lucy tells me you met her on a charter flight. So I figure those photos of us she took, the ones you sold to the tabloids, that was some sort of test of loyalty? Because I know for a fact she got her walking papers for that little stunt.”

“She’s very loyal, my Lucy,” the Master says with a satisfied sigh. Lucy swivels her head and smiles at him, and the reverence and adoration on her face, it’s like watching a devotee come face-to-face with her god. “I don’t understand, all the hiding and privacy, it was like you were ashamed of this gorgeous creature, Doctor. It was a kindness, really, bringing your relationship to the public’s attention.”

He shifts his gaze to Rose. “He likes to keep his flings quiet, you see, so when he’s done with them there’s less fallout to deal with, he can make a clean getaway. Once those pictures went public, it would have created a hubbub if he pulled his usual cut-and-run act. If I hadn’t shone a little light on your dalliance, you might not be here today, my dear!”

Rose’s fingers have grown progressively tighter on the Doctor’s leg and there’s a yelp building in the back of his throat, if he opens his mouth it’s going to spill right out.

“Trust and discretion, I suppose those are the kinds of things that fall by the wayside when you’re only focused on one thing,” Rose says, leaning forward.

“Oh, this ought to be good. Do tell me, Rose Tyler, what one thing is that?”

“Self-gratification.” Rose grabs the Doctor’s hand and hauls him to his feet. “Thanks for the drinks, this has been quite an illuminating interlude, but I think we’ve all had quite enough.”

He follows her out of the bar and into the lobby and it’s open and bright, sunlight streaming in from outside, and suddenly he feels like he can breathe again. His lungs ache as he pulls in a deep draught of air. 


	4. Chapter 4

  
Rose’s face is scrunched, whether in anger or disgust, the Doctor can’t quite tell. Both, probably. But whether some of that is at him, for not acting, for not stepping in, for not explaining beforehand, that’s the real stumper.

“ _That’s_ your oldest mate?” Rose says finally, shaking her head, and maybe the question was rhetorical, maybe he doesn’t have to answer.

She puts her hand on her hip after a moment. He’s meant to answer.

“Well,” the Doctor rubs at the back of his neck. “Yes and no, I mean, he was a mate, but he was also –”

” _Doctor!_ ” Donna’s voice is high and shrill and very, very angry as she crosses the lobby toward them. “Sound check was supposed to start 20 minutes ago!”

The Doctor thinks back to 20 minutes ago, just checking in at the restaurant, and what he wouldn’t give to have remembered sound check then.

“Oh, no,” Donna says as she stops in front of them. “It’s fine, only the most anticipated performance of tonight’s ceremony, tonight’s televised ceremony and you’re what? Having tea?”

Donna leans in and sniffs at him and he’s terrified somehow she can smell it on him, sweat and nerves and vulgar grins.

“Having _drinks,_ even better. No, no, this is definitely the evening to start embracing your inner rock wanker,” Donna rolls her eyes.

Donna’s just reaching out a hand to tug him along when the Master and Lucy stroll out of the restaurant, holding hands in a way that somehow manages to seem dirty. Do he and Rose look like that?

“Donna,” the Master says. “I have to apologize, I lost track of time, it’s my fault. Don’t know where I _got off,_ not minding sound check.”

She pivots on her heels toward him, “I don’t care what kind of lunatic haze performance you usually put on, but my artistsmake their rehearsals. Both of you, go. They should have a house set up for you to play on until we can bring your instruments over.” And she points out the window, at the glass pyramid of the Hall of Fame, shining in the sun.

Rose gives him a gentle nudge, “Go ahead, I’ll be right behind you.”

The Doctor drops his shoulders, making for the exit, the Master on his heels.

It’s a short, awkward walk to the Hall of Fame and the air is oppressive and humid and not only because of the lake churning just beyond them.

“It has to be said, that was fun. _Stimulating_ conversation,” the Master says finally, as they’re pushing open the doors to the Hall of Fame.

“That was completely inappropriate and you know it,” the Doctor says and then clenches his jaw. He should’ve just kept his mouth shut.

“Oh, it’s all right for you to do it, on a televised awards ceremony, no less? But I let off a little steam in the company of friends and suddenly you’re the propriety police?”

The Doctor’s jaw unclenches, mouth falling open – had they been that obvious at the award show?

“I’d recognize that dull, stupid look in your eye anywhere,” the Master sneers. “Did anyone ever tell you that you don’t blink properly? Too much blood to your cock, I imagine. Can’t even shut your eyelids like a normal person.”

They walk the rest of the way to the rehearsal space in silence, the Doctor clenching and unclenching his fist, knuckles popping.

There’s only one guitar on the stage, with a mic and a drum kit, and the Doctor strides over to the guitar, plugging in without thinking.

They’ve not talked about songs for the night yet and he’s not in the mood for it now. They can just play covers until then, avoid the minefield that is music they’d written together, in a different life.

He thinks of Rose as he tunes the guitar. Is she stuck with Lucy? Or has Donna intervened? The guilt is gnawing on him, settled somewhere behind his ribs, tight and painful, and he hears the Master slide behind the drum kit, banging out four steady beats before slamming against the cymbal and stilling it with his hand.

His fingers dance on the strings and he listens to the sound of it through the amp for a moment before starting hard into the White Stripes, the intro of “Fell in Love with a Girl” rolling from the speakers.

The Master picks up the drums right on cue and it’s good, it’s great, loud and synced and perfect, and he starts up the lyrics without thinking, running through them effortlessly as he gets more into the song, “I must be fine ‘cause my heart’s still beating.”

He forgets for a moment, forgets everything but the adrenaline of playing music, and he turns toward the kit with a grin. The Master’s hands wrapped around the sticks, arms working rhythmically as he keeps up the beat.

It’s a short song and they end with a clang to some light applause from the Hall of Fame staff.

Somehow the fact that they still have this connection — they still work together so seamlessly, when it comes down to it — makes everything infinitely worse. Because no matter how crude and manipulative and narcissistic the Master is, the Doctor can’t help but hope that maybe, justmaybesomewhere deep beneath all the power-lust and manipulation, a hint of the Koschei he knew still survives.

_Not_ because the Doctor would ever want to rekindle anything. He is, without doubt or reservation, head-over-heels in love with Rose Tyler.

But because if there’s any hint of Koschei left, then there’s the possibility that perhaps his oldest friend might, someday, experience genuine happiness again. It isn’t in the Doctor’s nature to wish ill on anyone; it isn’t in his nature to nurse grudges.

It is most _certainly_ in his nature to hope.

Even though the Master has been a complete arse all afternoon, even though he’s well aware that the Master would ridicule him for his sentimentality, the Doctor finds himself smiling at him. “That was a bit of all right.”

“You were slow at the bridge,” the Master says. “Leaving me to do the heavy lifting, as usual. Some things never change.” He puts down the sticks and skips down the stairs off the stage, calling over his shoulder, “During the performance, we’re doing three songs: ‘Oakdown Blaze,’ ‘Darkheart Colony,’ and then my new single, ‘White-Point Star.’ Don’t bother trying to talk to the organizers about the lineup, I’ve already arranged everything.”

And without a glance back, he leaves the building.

The crew is mostly gone, and the theater practically empty, and the Doctor stays alone onstage for a while, and it’s a kind of catharsis — letting his fingers move how they want to on the guitar, songs coming out that he hasn’t played in years. Bare bones, a chord here and there, the way they connect with some of his newer songs, it’s like puzzle pieces that don’t quite fit but look like they should.

“You gonna get dressed for the banquet, Rock Boy? Or do you plan on going in the same ratty jeans you wore on the flight over?” Donna’s leaning against one of the pillars just off-stage, arms crossed. He wonders how long she’s been watching. “Ought to at least take a shower and do something with that mop of yours. You look like you stuck your toe in a lightsocket.”

“Is it as bad as Glastonbury 2006?” The Doctor asks, sticking a hand in his hair. He forgets he’s got the pick between his fingers, ends up losing it in the thick mess atop his head. He fumbles, running his hands through, trying to shake it out to no avail.

“Your hair hasnever been as bad as it was at Glastonbury. And you did _television interviews_ with it looking like that, too. Shoved your muddy Wellies right up in the camera. I died of secondhand embarrassment,” Donna replies with a fond, indulgent smile. She comes over and he tips his head forward; she plucks out the pick and hands it to him.

“Thanks. Where’s Rose?”

“Oh, she’s out of harm’s way, I made sure of that. Because the way she was looking at that Lucy woman, I couldn’t tell if Rose was keen to rescue her or kill her,” Donna replies. “Come on, Doctor, I’m here to escort you back to your room. With the way today’s been going, if I leave you unsupervised, you’ll end up falling into Lake Erie. And I’ve been meaning to have a word with you.”

The Doctor glances once more at the stage before turning back to leave with Donna. However this is going to happen, he’s looking at the scene of it early, and it’s an eerie feeling, knowing in advance that you’re at the start of something huge.

It feels a bit like standing alongside that pool on their first tour, waiting and watching the reflection of the water, knowing that somehow Rose was going to find her way there and something was going to change, one way or another.

He follows Donna out of the building, watching the sun just beginning to set in the sky. He’s briefly mobbed by a rowdy group of Indians fans, one shoving a team cap on his head for a picture. He smiles to himself thinking of Rose and how she’ll tease him about it, another photo of him in a dweeby hat to add to the collection on the fridge.

Of course, that picture, if it makes the papers, will end up buried somewhere in the back, lost to pages and pages about the reunion. He tries to focus on the image, tries to imagines the headlines and the stories, to see how his subconscious thinks tonight will go, but it’s too fuzzy.

Donna pulls him away from the group, apparently noticing the way his eyes lit up at the mention of an extra ticket to tonight’s game. Wouldn’t that be something? Skip the whole thing and catch a ball game instead.

“Name all nine positions on a baseball field,” she says, teasing him.

“What?”

“Name all nine positions on the field and I’ll let you go to the game.”

He nudges into her, already walking to the hotel, but maybe if he keeps this up, she’ll forget that she wanted to have a “word” with him.

“Well, let’s see. The bases, that’s three. Short stop?”

Donna nods, “Five more to go, Bat Boy.”

“Some people in the outfield. I’ll come back to that. Um,” he squints into the setting sun, “Ooh, pitcher and catcher!”

Donna opens the door to the hotel, ducking in before him, “There you are! And what a beautiful segue – Rose has no idea you ever _played baseball_ with the Master, does she?”

The Doctor stops midway through the door, “That was a trick, Donna Noble! Get me all relaxed and thinking about something else and then, boom, lay it on me. That was – that was a foul ball! That was a strikeout! Swing and a miss!”

He’s searching for anything else he can say, anything that will get him to the room and away from this conversation without actually having it. “A fumble?”

Donna pulls him through the door the rest of the way, tugging him toward the elevators, “That’s American football. Listen, it’s going to be easier on both of you if you’re the one to tell her. The Master’s going to catch on and it’ll be a thousand times worse if she finds out from him.”

The elevators open and he steps inside, Donna leaning around the door to press the button for his floor before stepping back out, “I’ve got a few things to take care of – she’s in the room. Tell her.”

And the elevator doors close.

The Doctor isn’t having second thoughts about telling Rose, but it doesn’t mean the prospect of the conversation is any less nerve-wracking. His stomach is doing a weird sideways-flop maneuver the entire ride up to their floor.

Rose is sitting in the middle of the bed in a bathrobe, towel wrapped around her head, fresh-faced from a shower.

She grins at him and clicks off the telly. “Was wondering if you’d gotten waylaid. Or maybe if your old mate had chopped you up and fed you to the fish in the lake out there.” She kicks her feet out, wiggling them on the white duvet. “I know he was a friend and all, but he doesn’t seem right in the head anymore. Has he always been this … _weird_?”

The Doctor can’t help it — a short laugh bursts out of him. “Weird would be one way to put it. Mildly psychopathic, narcissistic personality disorder, bipolar — I don’t know that he’s ever had a shrink check his head, but I’m sure at least oneof those would apply.” The Doctor is full of nervous energy, can hardly contain the urge to pace floor in front of the bed, so he goes and flops down into the armchair on the opposite side of the room. “We were talking, earlier. We got interrupted.”

She crosses her legs, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on the heels of her hands. Her eyes are bright and focused. “I’m here. I’m listening. I don’t care if Paul McCartney comes knocking at that door, we won’t open it. No more interruptions; we’ve got an hour before the banquet and performance.”

Sucking in a long breath, the Doctor scrubs his face with his hands. “So we knew each other in school — we were so different back then. The Master went by Koschei, I was Theta Sigma. We were young and too smart for our own good; too stupid about things that mattered. The year before graduation was the first time we kissed.”

He’s watching her carefully, looking for the smallest crinkle in the skin beside her eyes or the most minute shift at the corners of her mouth. Her lips part just a little and he hears a breath. “Oh.”

“If I told you it was nothing, it was youthful dalliance, I’d be lying.”

“You loved him,” she says, lifting her chin from her hands and knitting her fingers together.

He holds her gaze, doesn’t look away. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” An infinite second of silence. “Did he love you?”

The Doctor manages a shrug, even though his hands and feet are tingling painfully, his heart is thudding in his ears, and he can feel the blood pulsing through the veins in his temples. “I think he did. He told me he did. We were together for years, until we split professionally. It was … messy … most of the time.”

“I understand. It was the same for me, with Jimmy Stone. Messy is a … gentle word to use for the way it was. But I understand.” Empathy is painted across her face, her eyes are soft with affection and unhappiness at his pain.

They’ve never talked about their pasts much, never dredged up the ghosts of dead romances because there was never a need. The Doctor knew Jimmy Stone existed, had heard bits and pieces dropped here and there, more of it from Mickey than from Rose herself. But now she’s holding the information out to him, offering it so he doesn’t feel quite as vulnerable and exposed.

So he doesn’t feel alone.

“I didn’t want you to find out from him,” the Doctor manages, and he’s surprised by the fact that his voice sounds a bit thick. “I’ll tell you anything — everything you want to know.”

Rose rises from the bed and crosses the room to him, adjusts her robe so she can sit sideways in his lap, legs draped over the arm of the chair. The weight of her keeps him grounded, makes the tingling in his hands and feet lessen and the pounding in his temple subside. Her arms slip around him and hold him tight, she pulls his head down against her shoulder and presses kisses into his hair.

“He hurt you. I’m sorry.”

The Doctor pulls back, shifting so he can see her face, “What could you possibly have to be sorry for? _I’m_ sorry, that I didn’t tell you sooner, that I – that there are still a lot of things I haven’t told you.”

He shifts again, sliding out from under her so she settles into the chair and he can crouch in front of her, hands tight on her knees, “Rose, there’s so much I should tell you, about everything, I feel like this career, this life, it’s like dog years, in a way, cramming seven years into one and sometimes it feels like I’ve lived for hundreds of years. Do you – do you know what I mean?”

Rose’s hands settle on top of his and he flips his up, so they’re resting palm to palm.

“Slow down,” she says. ” We’ll get there. We keep a good pace, you and I, we don’t need to rush to the end, yeah? Besides, if you tell me all your secrets now, well, there goes the mystery. My eyes will be wandering in a matter of days, if not sooner.”

She gives him a toothy grin and it’s like coming into an air conditioned flat after a day in the sun, refreshing and perfect and just what he needs.

“Oh, is that so, Rose Tyler? I’ll just have to give you something to keep your attention,” and he pushes himself up to stand. “I see you’ve already showered, but I’m due. Maybe you’ll find something to catch your eye in there?”

He walks across the suite to toward the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes and stopping to toe out of his trainers.

Rose catches up to him in a matter of moments, just as he’s unbuckling his belt and undoing his trousers, shucking them and his pants down his legs to pool on the tile of the en suite.

He leans exaggeratedly toward the shower to turn it on, making a show of keeping out of the spray before it warms, because he knows she’s watching, knows she likes the lines and play of his muscles stretching under his skin.

When he pulls back to look at her, her eyes have, in fact, found something to focus on and that specific thing is enjoying the attention, hardening under her gaze as he sticks a hand out to test the water.

It’s the kind of scalding hot that she likes and he finds almost unbearable, but something in the back of his mind embraces the idea of it today, even if she doesn’t join him. He’ll boil away all these feelings, scrubbed clean and pink and ready for the performance.

Of course, if Rose does want to join him, well, all the better.

He clears his throat and can’t hold back a grin as Rose’s eyes skitter up to meet his. Her hand shoots out to grope around the counter and when her fingers light on a tube of lipstick, he’s confused.

She uncaps the tube, twisting the end, and then she’s raising it, but it’s too high for her mouth. She draws a thick red line with it down the slope of her nose.

“Oh, silly me,” she says. “I’ve gone and ruined my make up. Better clean off and start over,” she says, ending with her tongue between her teeth.

He can’t shuffle over fast enough, hopping into the shower and making room for her under the spray of water. She pulls the towel from her head, dropping it and her robe in the pile with his clothes.

There was an unfortunate incident in the shower back home, a lack of purchase for his feet, a slippery wall, and they’d decided right then and there they wouldn’t be trying that again.

But there’s always loopholes, other ways to get the job done, and he when he leans in to kiss her, hair sticking flat to his head as the water pours down, his hand is already on its way, taking a meandering path across her hip, the curve of her stomach and waist, as his tongue slips alongside hers.

He reaches up with his other hand, angling the shower head so it’s spraying the wall before pressing her against it, finger circling before slipping inside her.

Dropping his mouth to her neck, he works out a quick rhythm, thumb adding the friction she needs as the water beats down on them and it’s not long before she’s swearing into his shoulder and sagging against him.

Her fingers reaches out to grip him after she collects herself and he arches his hips toward her hand before he’s overcome with a vision of the bar this afternoon, a memory of a dorm shower years ago right on its heels. It’s as if the water’s suddenly turned freezing and he gently removes her hand.

“It’s fine,” he breathes out. “Gotta keep my energy up for the show.”

She looks concerned, but nods and she only gets a little free with her hands as he makes short work of cleaning himself, taking extra care to run the flannel down her nose and clear the lipstick.

They exit the shower in a hopping dance, going from heated water to cool air, and Rose bundles herself in the second robe, the first still wet on the ground earlier. It leaves him only a towel to wrap around his hips and he’s rubbing at his arms as he makes his way over to their luggage.

They make short work of getting dressed, although the Doctor ends up watching crap telly while she finishes up her hair and makeup. She’s got her heels hooked on a few fingers of one hand, the other one busy clipping on an earring, as the Doctor opens the door. Donna’s standing in the hallway, caught with her hand in the air as she’s just about to knock.

“Thought we’d have to send in an extraction team,” she says, reaching up to straighten out his collar.

“Sorry, sorry,” Rose chimes from behind him, shooing him out the door. “I took forever on my hair. I know.”

“You ought to let me bring along your stylists for more of these things,” Donna huffs as they move toward the elevator. She jabs the elevator button too hard, jabs it again because it’s flickering like it isn’t taking her seriously.

“I don’t like people fussing over me.”

The Doctor knows it’s because Jackie had Rose primped and pre-packaged for so much of her career, she’s reveling in the fact that she finally has control over her image. But he keeps his mouth shut, reaches out to sweep the hair off her shoulder and caresses her cheek. She smiles back at him, using his arm to keep her balance as she puts her shoes on.

“Well you look lovely, at I’m glad you got Rock Boy here to at least clean up a bit. He was starting to smell a bit ripe.” The elevator arrives and they step inside. Donna rounds to face them both, crossing her arms. “I don’t know how he does it, gets his fingers into everything, but the Master had rigged the seating charts so you were sitting with him and his wife, at the same table. I pitched a fit about it, shouted a bit, which did no good whatsoever.”

Rose’s hand finds the Doctor’s, squeezing. She rubs her lips together, smoothing out her lipstick. “It’s only a few hours, yeah? We’ll be fine.”

“Well, shouting at the world didn’t fix the problem. But then I nicked a maid’s key, slipped into the Master’s suite while he was out, and made a phone call from his room. Told them I was his secretary, and there was a change of plans. So now the Master’s sitting on the far right side of the stage, while we’ll be front and center.”

The Doctor grins — it’s huge, all teeth and cheeks and his face feels like it’s going to crack in half. “You are brilliant, Donna Noble!”

“Oh hush, you,” she says, shrugging, and it isn’t false modesty, it’s because she feels genuinely uncomfortable. The Doctor throws his arms around her, squeezing until he feels her back pop.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Anytime, Rock Boy.”

The elevator doors open, they hop into the limo, make the short drive to the venue, and it’s showtime.

They could have easily walked, as they’d been doing earlier. In fact, the Doctor would have preferred it, just strolling on up, instead of the production of the car and the red carpet; the whole business of grand entrances always feels a bit silly.

But it’s too late for that now, they’ve already arrived and the height of Rose’s heels indicates it wouldn’t have flown anyway.

Donna gets out first and they wait a few moments for her to come back with her initial impressions. When she pops her head back in the limo, she looks disgusted.

“He’s waiting on the carpet for you,” she says to the Doctor and he hears Rose curse softly next to him.

He shakes them off, “It’s fine, it’s fine. Donna, what’s our next release? Is it that tour documentary?”

Donna nods, clearly confused, “Yeah, ‘House Calls with the Doctor and Rose,’ they’re calling it. Don’t even get me started on the name, loads of puns in that meeting. Loads. It comes out late next month, why?”

The Doctor shifts from the seat, ducking toward the door as Donna backs up. He extends a hand to Rose and helps her out.

“Might as well use all that extra press for something,” he shrugs. “The Master’s going to love that.”

They only get through two interviews on their own and haven’t even reached the step-and-repeat before the Master and Lucy join them.

The Doctor smiles for pictures, hand wrapped tight around Rose’s waist, belying the jovial banter he’s adopted with the press.

He sticks to the script the whole carpet through, pushing the DVD like it’s the ticket to his next meal and it’s admittedly pretty brilliant, watching the Master squirm uncomfortably every time he brings it up.

By the time they reach the doors, the Master’s clearly furious and when they’re escorted to their seats, it nearly boils over.

“No, no, no,” the Master says. “There’s a mistake. We are seated here, with them.” He points at the table the Doctor, Rose, and Donna are settling in to, his face reddening as he speaks.

The usher shrugs and calls over a publicist, who bends over backward trying to accommodate them.

Donna pushes back with all she’s got, but the publicist is polite and determined and when the house lights blink, they’re all forced into the table together.

The Master seats himself next to the Doctor, knocking their knees together roughly. Rose is seated on the Doctor’s other side and her hand grips his thigh with a squeeze she probably means to be reassuring, but contrasted with the press of the Master’s leg opposite it, only makes his stomach churn.

A waiter comes around to take their drink orders and he’s just returned with them as the ceremony begins.

The Doctor and Master are to receive their award last and then they’ll kick off the concert portion of the evening with their three-song set.

The emcee takes the stage and the Doctor’s trying to focus, really he is, but the table is so small and the Master’s pressed up against his side, fingers and foot drumming out four beats in anxious repetition and it’s all the Doctor can hear.

_bum-bum-bum-bum_

_bum-bum-bum-bum_

Rose leans in to tell him something about the artist currently receiving their award and he jumps at the sound of her voice in his ear, like being woken from a dream.

“Love these guys,” she says, nodding at the group on stage. “Shopkeeper recommended them after I picked up the Velvet Album.”

“Yeah, yeah, Velvet Underground. Lou Reed is brilliant,” he says, distracted and trying to clear his mind. “You know ‘Sweet Jane’ is actually about Sarah Jane? And that’s Jack Harkness he’s talking about, too. Sarah Jane wouldn’t give him the time of day though.”

He lets himself think about the song for a moment, scratching out the chords on the tabletop, thinking about villains who always blink their eyes and whether the Master even has a heart to break anymore. Maybe they could just leave their instruments on stage tonight, leaned up against the amps Velvets-in-San-Francisco style. A riot of feedback might be the better option, in any case.

Rose elbows him with a funny look, “Your Velvet Album, Doctor,” she whispers.

“Oh,” he says, but he’s already tapped back into the Master next to _him, bum-bum-bum-bum._

Before he can break through again, the usher is tip-toeing over, indicating that they should make their way backstage now.

The Master stands and holds his arm out, indicating the Doctor can walk in front of him, but it isn’t consideration, it’s more like trying to take control. The Doctor gives Rose a smile — it’s relaxed, right? Looks natural, reassuring? — and squeezes her hand. “Back in a mo’.”

“Break a leg,” she whispers back.

“Ohh, time for girl talk,” Lucy coos, scooting over so she’s sitting in the Doctor’s chair.

The Doctor doesn’t let himself think about that; Rose is a capable woman, more than able to handle herself. The Doctor doesn’t tussle with the Master over who’s walking where, because honestly, it doesn’t matter. Tonight isn’t about the years he spent trying to cope with the Master full-time, and certainly isn’t about the Master’s megalomaniacal control-freak antics this weekend. It’s about the Doctor’s lifetime’s worth of work, the recognition of the creative and personal direction he’staken.

With his shoulders back and a grin on his face, he walks off the floor of the ballroom and into the backstage area.

It’s bedlam, crew hustling to get instruments switched, to make sure everything’s running smoothly. The Master comes to stand beside the Doctor, putting his hands in the pockets of his slick black suit in a gesture that’s deliberately mimicking his posture.

“Try not to cock anything up, eh Theta?”

“Try not to fumble your sticks and stumble offstage in the middle of the set, eh Koschei?”

Something sparks deep in the Master’s eyes and a strange half-grimace, half-smile twists across his face. He opens his mouth to say something else, but a voice from behind them interrupts. “Doctor, you forgot this.”

The Doctor turns and Rose is there, holding his lucky pick. He pats his pocket, because he’s certain he’d had it in the pinstriped jacket when they left the hotel room. “Oh, Rose Tyler, you’re a lifesaver.”

The stage manager walks past, frazzled and sweating and carrying a bowl full of purple Skittles. He shoves the Skittles into the Master’s hands. “Sorry these are late, sorry — and you gentlemen have five minutes till your curtain!”

The Master practically tosses the bowl back into the stage manager’s hands. “These aren’t mine!”

“They were in your rider, sir, I had a call from your secretary earlier this afternoon and I could’ve sworn …”

While the Master is distracted, wrapped up in an argument over purple candy, Rose tugs at the Doctor’s arm, pulling him further into the wings, where the curtains are particularly thick.

“I picked your pocket — I picked a pick from your pocket,” she says, and she’s a little breathless, her lips flushed and her eyes bright. “That’s a tongue-twister.”

“Ohhh, shouldn’t have brought you here, you’ve picked up bad habits hanging out with these bad elements,” he says with a grin in reply, nodding in the Master’s general direction . His voice is vaguely audible from here, but they can’t see him — they can’t see anyone, it’s like being in their own private room made entirely of velvet.

“I’m so proud of you. And I couldn’t let you go on without your good-luck kiss,” Rose says, one hand slipping through the short hair at the back of his head, the other snagging him by the waist and pulling his hips into hers. She comes up on her tiptoes and his mouth finds hers, lips opening and tongues moving, noses bumping and breath hot on each other’s skin

The Doctor closes his eyes, letting himself sink into this perfection of this moment — backstage at the Hall of Fame induction ceremony, at his own induction ceremony, the woman he loves in his arms, sucking on his bottom lip as he runs his tongue over the contours inside her mouth. He’s leaning her over backward and she clings to him, letting him take control of the kiss.

He could use a wall, something to back her up against, but he makes do with his hands, spanning one across the small of her back with the other skates down her bum to where it joins her thigh, hitching her up closer to him.

There’s too many nerves, too much anxiety and adrenaline fizzing through his veins to have to worry about embarrassing himself when he walks on stage in a few moments, and so he’s just enjoying the rhythm of the kiss, not concerned with where it’s going.

Rose pulls back briefly to realign and when she returns, she tugs at his bottom lip with her teeth lightly, nipping at him.

“Oh, yes, use your teeth,” the Master says, his voice low and cloying. “He _loves_ that.”

The Doctor jerks his head back, blinking to try and clear his mind as Rose keeps her eyes on his face, refusing to give the Master the satisfaction.

He can’t help it though, and when he turns, the Master is standing a few feet way, popping Skittles into his mouth one at a time, like he’s enjoying a movie.

“You know where else he likes a little bit of teeth, don’t you?” The Master says as he finishes chewing. “What am I saying, of _course_ you do! Girl like you? Bet you’re brilliant at that.”

The Master’s eyes rake down Rose’s body, lingering on her chest before he grins brightly, “And well, not like he’s hard to please. Hair trigger, this one. How many of my ties did you ruin again? Dozens, I’ll bet.”

The Doctor makes a move for the Master without thinking, furious and hot, blood still singing from kissing Rose. Her hand wraps around his bicep, stopping him before he can do whatever it is he was going to do. He realizes a moment later that his fingers are curled into a fist.

Rose pulls him back and her cheeks are flushed, but her voice is level, “Oh, I’m incredibly brilliant,” she says. “But you know him, almost too much to get a hold of. Must be nice for Lucy though, having everything so compact.”

She drops her eyes to the front of the Master’s trousers with a smirk. The Doctor feels the edges of his mouth curl into a smile as he fights back a laugh. He shouldn’t be so surprised, he knows, Rose is more than capable of handling herself, but it’s always impressive when she reminds him.

“Didn’t I mention?” the Doctor says. “Rose and I are one of those ‘cards on the table’ couples. It’s just a shame you’re not playing with a full deck.”

The Doctor lights up at the unintended meaning behind his words – it’s always a good time for a word play.

“I don’t remember there being any complaints,” the Master sneers. “In fact, I recall quite a bit of begging for it. You know we used to do this same thing? Snogs for good luck before the show?”

The Doctor feels Rose’s eyes on him and even though there’s not any judgment behind her gaze, he stills feel guilty.

“Of course, it didn’t usually end there. Remember the dry cleaning bill from those curtains in Berlin? I think the venue would’ve auctioned them off, if I’d let them,” the Master says.

The Doctor blinks away the memory, laughing like they were back at the Academy at the mess they’d made of the fabric, stumbling onto the stage with their trousers still half undone.

“I suppose it’s different now though,” the Master says. “You can’t give him what he really wants, you’re just not built for it.”

“Oh, Rose Tyler is more built for it than you ever were,” the Doctor snaps, stepping forward.

He doesn’t need Rose’s restraining hand on his arm anymore; his rage has shifted from blinding red to focused and incredibly clear-headed. Sometimes the Doctor’s babbling gob earns him looks of pity or bemusement from others, but in these rare moments of crystallized fury, his words are weapons of laser-sharp precision. “You, with the emotional maturity of a five-year old and an egomaniacal streak as deep and wide as the Laurentian Abyss. You, who can’t even begin to conceive how to make anyone happy, or even feel true happiness yourself.

“And here’s Rose, the polar opposite of everything you’ve ever been. Someone I look forward to spending my life with. Someone who is my equal.

“Of course you’d try to reduce it down to crude biology. It’s the only thing you understand, in the stunted emotional part of your brain. For the record, I find Rose Tyler incredibly sexy. As far as I’m concerned, she’s ideal for it. But let me put this in terms you’re more likely to understand, Master: just _looking_ at her gets my cock hard, and given any and every opportunity I want to _fuck_ her till neither of us can move anymore.

“Rose Tyler is everything I have ever wanted. Period.”

The Master’s eyes have gone dark, his pupils tiny glittering chips of black. His mouth is pinched into a furious line and he looks like a man about to do something rash — the Doctor knows the Master’s slow-burning rabidity, remembers witnessing him scuffle with other students in the courtyard at the Academy. Remembers after graduation, when he’d punched holes in the walls of their apartment, thrown furniture across the room and they’d ended up leaving bruises all over each other.

Of course, the Master isn’t Koschei anymore; the Master isn’t even the man the Doctor walked out on so many years ago. The odds of this devolving into a physical confrontation are slim; the Doctor doesn’t doubt that the Master will lash out in other ways.

The Doctor feels a flicker of the old Theta in his gut, the need to be conciliatory, the need to manage the Master’s outburst, to minimize damage.

He squashes it ruthlessly.

“I feel sorry for you, Master. Sorry you’ll never be capable of loving someone like I love Rose. Sorry you’ll always feel so lonely. Sorry for how incredibly miserable you must be.”

With that, the Doctor walks past the Master toward the stage. He snags his blue guitar from the stage hand who’s been standing a short distance away for the last minute, gesturing wildly at them as the intro music for their set repeats over and over again.

The Doctor knows the Master is following, doesn’t doubt it for a second. And he doesn’t care what kind of plans for revenge are brewing in the other man’s head, doesn’t flinch at the possible misery he might try to inflict during or after this performance.

None of that matters, because the Doctor saw Rose Tyler’s face after he was done talking. The emotions plain in her expression and her eyes, clear as though she’d spoken them aloud, and the Doctor is a thousand feet tall — he can manage anything the Master throws at him, everything the Master throws at him, will do so gladly.

After seeing that look on Rose Tyler’s face, and the Doctor could do absolutely anything in the universe.

He’s supposed to accept his award first and there’s a small group from the nominating committee at the podium, staring at him with wide eyes. The Doctor stops for a minute, searching for Donna in the front row and squinting into the lights.

When he finds her, he raises his eyebrows, trying to figure out, since it was clearly audible from the stage, whether the audience heard it, too.

She gives a tiny shake of her head and a look that says she’ll want the full story later.

He plasters on a grin and finishes the walk to the podium, waiting for the Master to catch up. When he does, the fury radiating from him feels like a palpable heat and he grabs for the trophy before turning to the mic.

“I’m here tonight to present this award to the Doctor –”

The Doctor cuts him off, taking the award from the Master with a smile, “And you’ve done a fine job of it. Let’s have a round of applause for the Master.”

The crowd applauds politely and the Master tries to jump back in, “There’s more I’d like to say.”

The Doctor waves him off, “Oh, these fine people have been more than patient. They don’t need to hear a list of my accomplishments,” he turns to the crowd and winks, playing it up, “It’s long and distinguished. They came for a rock show!”

And with that, he trots off the stage, slings the guitar he’s still holding over himself and hands the trophy to Rose in the wings with a quick kiss.

The Master’s face is murderous as he slinks behind the drum kit already set up and before he can count off for the start of the first song, the Doctor changes course, strumming out the beginning of “Regeneration Sickness.”

It’s a song with long, complicated guitar solos, and they’d all but stopped playing it when the Master switched over to the drums – wouldn’t do for the Doctor to get so much of the spotlight.

He nails it now, hamming it up for the crowd and grinning toothily at the Master at every turn. It wouldn’t have surprised him in the least if the Master had kicked the kit over and stormed off stage, but he’s playing through, apparently aware that there are far too many important industry figures in the house tonight.

As the song wraps up, the Master shifts right into the beginning of “White Point Star,” which the Doctor’s only heard in between furious jabs of his finger at the radio, so he improvises as the Master fills in the blanks.

He stops his guitar with a clang as the Master finishes the ending solo and turns into the mic, “I’d actually like to call Rose Tyler out for the last song. I know it’s my award, but I feel like my work with her has been some of the best of my career, and I’d like to celebrate that. Rose, can you come out here?”

Rose looks surprised, but ducks out from the wings, waving her fingers at the Master with a cocky smile.

The Doctor glances around the stage, Rose’s guitar is somewhere in the hotel, but there’s a bass already in its stand for one of the later performances.

He shoulders his guitar off and hands it Rose, whose eyes go wide as she takes it. She’s never played it before, he’s particular about her in a way other men seem to be about their cars, but it seems like a silly rule now. He trusts Rose with everything he has and no one will take better care of Sexy than her.

He feels a small pang of regret that she’d never played the original Sexy and he mentally apologizes to the guitar, lost somewhere at the bottom of the ocean.

As Rose adjusts the strap, fitting it so the guitar sits at the right height, the Doctor picks up the bass. It’s been a while since he’s played one, but between the Master and Rose, any flubs he might make are more than covered.

The Master is pounding away already, and he’s absolutely magnetic in the middle of the stage, black suit and tie, sweat and manic energy. It’s the opening beat to “Oakdown Blaze,” one of the first songs they wrote together. It had been collaborative, composed in the small hours of the morning in their dorm room, but the Master had ended up with the credit — something he said in a television interview, a few words he had with the record label about the liner notes. They’d had a week-long row about it, and the Doctor had bile in his throat every time they played the song together after that.

Rose’s fingers are wiggling just above the strings and she looks over at him, because this beat ( _rat-ta-tat-tat rat-ta-tat-tat_ ) fits more than one of their own newer songs, as well.

But as he looks at Rose, the Doctor realizes that the idea of playing “Oakdown Blaze” doesn’t bring bile to his throat anymore. His stomach doesn’t clench, there’s no bitterness or resentment lingering, not a scrap of it to be found anywhere.

He grins at her and shrugs before launching into the first chords of “Oakdown Blaze.” Because playing this song here, in this venue with Rose Tyler — it’s reclaiming it, in a way. Doesn’t matter that the Master will get more royalties from the performance, or why anyone else thinks the Doctor’s playing it. All that matters is the fact that singing these words, Rose’s voice strong and clear beside him, is a catharsis he’s needed for years.

Afterward, the applause is thunderous and Rose waves to the audience as the Master and the Doctor execute the tiniest of bows at the same time — an old habit, something they concocted as a signature to their performances.

“Thank you, Cleveland!” the Master shouts, hefting his drumsticks in the air with one hand.

The minute they’re offstage, the Master grabs the Doctor by the elbow and spins him around. “Do you think you’re going to _get away_ with what you did out there? I have dozens of PR lackeys on the ground, spinning every second of that performance as we speak. I’ve got interviews lined up with all the major American morning shows, and I am going to use this to bury you.” His words have been slowing, the focus of his fury faltering as he surveys the Doctor’s face. “Why are you grinning like an idiot?”

“I just realized something, out there onstage,” the Doctor replies. “I forgive you.”

This, predictably, ratchets the Master’s anger up to an entirely new level. Because the Master doesn’t ( _can’t_ ) understand that the forgiveness the Doctor feels — it isn’t for the Master’s sake. It doesn’t matter if the Master accepts that forgiveness or not. It’s for himself. The Doctor forgives the Master, forgives all of the horrible things he’s done, all the ways he’s hurt the Doctor over the years, and that forgiveness is freedom from his own anger and disappointment. It’s moving on, in every possible way.

Forgiveness doesn’t mean the Doctor’s going to forget everything that’s happened, or pretend like it never occurred. He’s just not harboring any grudges or unhappiness about those things; he’s let it go.

And forgiveness certainly doesn’t mean the Doctor intends to subject himself, or anyone he cares about, to any more abuse. With the Master standing in front of him, red-faced and winding up for another tirade, now is one of those putting-his-foot-down moments.

The Doctor doesn’t yell or shout, he simply says, “We’re done here.”

Taking Rose Tyler by the hand, snagging his Hall of Fame trophy in the other, he walks out the back door of the theater, right onto the lakefront, without a glance back.

There’s a boom like thunder overhead and for one, brief panicky moment he fears the sound of the Master’s drums is following him, but then Rose is tugging at his hand, turning away from the water as she looks up and grins.

“Doctor, fireworks!” She says, and another boom sounds around them as she points with her free hand to the shower of light fizzing away in the sky.

It’s coming from the stadium a few blocks away and the Doctor whoops, “I knew I liked baseball!”

He pulls her along, breaking out into a run, trying to get to closer, but their progress is hampered by the height of Rose’s heels and the way they stop to look every time another firework explodes.

They’re more than halfway there, the bright lights of the stadium dimmed for the fireworks and waiting at an intersection when the Doctor suddenly changes course.

“Let’s go back to the room,” he says, nodding in the direction of the hotel, and he slides his arm low around her hips, slipping a finger under the waistband of her trousers.

The air is humid, the smell of gunpowder and Rose on the breeze, and he feels happy, happy and silly and free, a firework himself, one that’s lit off just for her.

They reach the doors of the hotel as the sky fills with the colors of the grand finale, rapid-fire pops echoing in the distance.

“You gonna be able to top that show?” Rose says with a grin, before peeking her tongue out between her teeth.

“Oh, Rose Tyler, the show is just beginning,” and he presses her against the entryway, touching their foreheads together and sneaking a quick kiss before he tangles their fingers again, tugging her through the door and toward the elevator.

She’s on him as soon as the doors close, pawing at the elevator buttons distractedly while her mouth works against his. They scandalize a few hotel guests on the floors her haphazard button-pushing has landed them on and by the time they reach the door of the suite, his shirt’s half unbuttoned and her bra’s undone beneath her top.

“Awards and fireworks,” he says, backing her up against the door, his face buried in her neck as he gropes in his pocket for the room key. “I’ll have to remember that.”

He finally gets the door open, bracing a hand on the small of her back to keep her from tumbling through, but she backs up anyway, meeting his eye, breathless and flushed.

“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s you.”

The adrenaline is bubbling up in him and he lets out a laugh, “Rose Tyler,” he says, because sometimes that, just that, feels like all he needs to say.

“I love you,” he adds anyway, just to be safe.

“Can’t love what you can’t catch!” Rose shouts, and takes off further into the suite, giggling as she leaps onto the bed.

He darts after her, flopping down on top of her just as she flips to her back, “Caught you,” he says and fastens his lips to her neck as she flexes up into him.

“You did,” she says. “Full marks. Whatever will you do with me?”

He works his mouth up her throat and begins planting kisses along the underside of her jaw, “I believe the rules indicate that now I get to love you.”

Her hands slip into his hair, keeping him pressed to her skin as she writhes beneath him, “Love or fuck?” and she punctuates the words with a buck of her hips.

He fits a hand between them, sliding up under her shirt and the loosened fabric of her bra, timing his response with the twist of his fingers, “Both.”

Her back arches off the bed, pushing her chest further into his hand and he leans up just long enough to grab at her shirt, pulling it up and off her head in a tangle of limbs. She works her arms free of her bra and tosses it from the bed as he starts in on his own shirt, fingers fumbling through the remaining buttons before shrugging that and his jacket off in one go.

He pulls her up with him, rising so they’re both on their knees and facing each other and then he grins and grabs for his belt, “Go!”

“No, no, no,” she says, scrambling for the button on her trousers even as she’s protesting, “False start, false start!”

He hops off the bed and pushes his unfastened trousers down, taking his pants with them as she falls onto her back and works hers off, too.

When he rejoins her on the bed, settling between her thighs and nuzzling into the valley between her breasts, she grips him by the back of the head, pulling at his hair until he looks at her.

“Disqualified, Doctor,” she says and he waggles his eyebrows.

“Disqualified, dashing, dapper, dignified, that’s me,” he says, leaning down to kiss her.

She pulls back after a moment, nudging at him so she can get a hand around him where he’s pressed up against her.

“Oh, yes, very dignified, this. You and the Queen, Doctor, you and the Queen,” she says.

“That’s right,” he says, replacing her hand with his own before positioning himself between her legs, pausing to make sure she’s ready before pushing into her. “Now just lie back and think of England.”

After several long moments and some extremely undignified noises from the both of them, he collapses on top of her and she scratches her hand down his spine, panting softly in his ear.

He pushes up off her and rolls on to his back, turning his head against the pillow to look at her, “Well, you just shagged a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame member, how did that feel?”

She scratches at her face, nose crinkling up, “Did I? I don’t see any proof of that,” and she lifts up, craning her neck to look around the suite.

His mouth gapes wordlessly for a moment, hands gesturing wildly between her lap and his own and finally onto the small wet spot soaking into the sheets.

Rose laughs, “No, Doctor, I mean – your award. What did we do with that?”

The next morning he opens the door for room service and there on the floor is his trophy, lying on top of two tickets to that afternoon’s baseball game, a note from Donna stuck to the top.

“I found this on 9th Street. Better leave it in the room.”

After a morning spent in bed, they make their way to the ball game and settle into their seats. An hour later they’re caught by the Kiss Cam.

The photo runs above the fold in every major paper in the States, crystal clear and huge. He cuts one out, and when they get home, he puts it on the mantle, right next to the award.


End file.
